


Within Me An Invincible Summer

by thrace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrace/pseuds/thrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke spends the winter resenting Lexa.  </p><p>But seasons change, and so do people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Now_

It's spring and the rains have swollen the river. Already the water is receding and then it will be time to plant, to enjoy the bounty of the rich, fertile soil left behind. They’ll harvest their spring vegetables too and begin the months of plenty, when life is easy and soft. Clarke likes to sit in a tree along the river banks and sketch the fields, the laborers building new fences and roads, the children darting in and out of the settlement. Sometimes she stares along the river, letting herself get carried away by the current.

She wonders about the inland; she hasn't gone farther than the Appalachians and that only once. There's so much more of the continent to explore; she's seen it from space and knows they've confined themselves to an infinitesimal slice of it, but on blowsy spring days, with cool breezes coming off the water and fresh spring flowers growing thick everywhere, she can hardly bring herself to care. Life is finally good and if it's not exactly carefree, it's at least far easier than it used to be.

A gaggle of children run up to her tree, arguing with each other. She watches them, waiting for one to speak. All of them were born here on the ground, many delivered by Clarke herself. What a luxury it is to be able to stop and have children and raise them in prosperity. She's thought idly of having children of her own but so far the time hasn't been right.

Finally one of them calls up to her. "Clarke?"

"Yes?"

"There's someone at the village to see you."

She slides out of the tree, tucking her notebook in her satchel. "Who is it?"

The child shrugs. "Dunno. She just rode up on a horse and asked for you."

"A horse? She's Trikru?" Clarke asks, already walking back to the village with the kids trailing behind her.

"She's pretty," says one of the younger boys.

"She looks like one of the Trikru," says an older girl, Pilar. She attends Clarke's healing lessons; no aptitude for it, but a good head on her shoulders in general. Clarke’s going to recommend she try guard training.

"They came to invade us!" says another boy.

"Don't be dumb," says Pilar.

"They're not here to invade," says Clarke, certain she's right, but also not completely sure why a Trikru messenger would be looking for her at all. The Tree People protect the borders and in exchange the Sky People share part of their harvest. It's the arrangement they've had for over ten years now, and it's suited them both just fine. Normally they see Trikru after each harvest, when guards come to escort them to Polis, or for the occasional group of traders making their regular progression through the territory.

They finally arrive at the edge of the village and some of the kids scatter, off to play or go to class or find their parents. Pilar and some of the older ones stick close by, curious to see who this new person is and what her relation is to Clarke.

Clarke finds the main throughway and looks towards the settlement entrance, where a solid dark horse stands. And next to it, a woman in all black, dark brown hair falling in thick waves around her shoulders. Clarke's breath catches in her throat and she freezes in place.

The woman approaches slowly, leaving her horse behind. "Hello, Clarke," she says when she's finally within a few feet. Her face is almost entirely blank but for the slightest tic of her brow.

Clarke can barely manage words. "Lexa?"

*

_Then_

Clarke wanders. It's dangerous with things so unsettled in the wake of the mountain, but she can't be with her people, if they even think of themselves as her people anymore, and she doesn't have anyone else. In the back of her mind a voice whispers that she knows where she could go, but she's gotten good at ignoring it.

She gets familiar with a bit of land twenty or so miles from Camp Jaha; there's a nice clear stream running past a big rocky hill with an overhang deep enough that it shelters her at night. She covers up the front with thick leafy branches, cross-hatching them to create a barrier that mostly keeps out the wind. She digs a fire pit outside and even manages to fashion a couple of crude cups from concave rocks. She doesn’t even consider the dropship; they’d look for her there.

Food is harder, but she has a rudimentary knowledge of the local plants now, and after four frustrating days, she finally manages to catch an animal in a trap. She wishes idly for a bow and arrow, or a spear, something she could use to take down larger game. She saw how they preserved meat in Tondc and thinks she could replicate the technique with a bit of practice. It would be nice to not have to go checking all her traps every day.

And then the weather turns, with all the suddenness and ferocity of a snarling animal. The wind grows harsh and rattles the bars of her impromptu shelter. She tries to daub it over with mud from the stream but as the temperature plummets, so does her resolve. The overhang isn't big enough to have a fire inside, and she's worried about someone spotting the light at night while she's sleeping.

So she moves on, hoping to find a cave, something bigger. She does find one, its entrance covered with a ratty blanket and some camouflaging foliage, but it shows signs of recent habitation if the mix of fresh and charred logs in the firepit inside are any indication. She has no desire to see other people.

She moves on, trying to keep to the rock formation the cave is a part of, but it tapers off after about three miles with nothing to show for her diligence. She circles, even considers finding a tree and sleeping in its branches if they're big and stable enough. She's read about houses in trees, places where children can play and make believe at having their own little territories. She imagines Lexa up in a treehouse, yelling down at Clarke that no Sky People are allowed, and involuntarily snorts to herself.

The sound of her own voice startles her. She hasn't spoken out loud in over a week. The realization makes her pause, makes her wonder if it's possible to lose her voice through disuse. She could just fade away into the trees, silent and alone, not even an echo to mark her passing.

She's so attuned to the sounds of the forest now that the merest shuffling off to her left puts her on high alert. The person she was before, the girl who thought that because she had trust she was safe in these woods—that person wouldn't have heard them coming. But Clarke does, and scurries for cover in some thick bushes.

They come into view in a minute, a band of Trikru with bows and arrows, moving with the stealth of a hunting party, not a war band. They're clearly looking for something, perhaps animal sign.

Clarke holds her breath as she freezes into total stillness, and eventually they leave, headed vaguely back in the direction of Tondc. She stays hidden for a few minutes longer until she's absolutely certain they're out of sight, and then collapses into the underbrush.

*

_Now_

Lexa's horse goes to the stables, where she fiercely eyes the girl who comes to collect the animal for grooming until the girl blushes and stammers a promise to be very thorough. Clarke thinks she catches the barest hint of a smile bending Lexa's stern mouth as the girl leads the horse away. She hasn't seen Lexa in–Clarke counts back in her head, going by harvests. Three years. The last three years Lexa has managed to be absent from Polis during the harvest festival.

The first time, Clarke had remarked on it, thinking out loud that it wasn't like Lexa to miss a Trikru celebration. She always ensured that she saw and was seen at ceremonial times, keeping the bond strong with her people. Indra had grunted and told her it was none of her business, Heda was a busy woman with a nation to run.

The second year Clarke wondered again, but once again Indra would hear no questions on the topic and so she was left without answers. The third year she stopped asking. After all, there were reports that the Ice Nation was growing restless, filtered several times through messengers and traders, but circulating widely enough that they managed to reach the Sky People.

"Is everything all right?" Clarke asks.

Lexa stands with her forearm resting casually on the pommel of her sword, hand dangling. "All is well, Clarke."

Clarke is about to rebut that everything is clearly not well if Lexa has come all this way, alone, but she can see that they've gathered something of an audience. "Why don't we..." She tips her head, indicating that Lexa should follow her.

Together they slip down an alley and emerge into a quiet street dotted with smaller huts, rougher and more rustic than the ones away from Main Street. These were some of the first homes built in Nova, and Clarke's is among them.

She leads Lexa into an unassuming house, more a wooden hut than anything else. There's only two rooms, the house split evenly between the front and the bedroom in the back. The front is just big enough to avoid being cozy, with shelves along most walls, a desk by the window to catch the light, and a large map of the settlement pinned up on the remaining wall. The shelves are stacked with paper, lined with rows of jars containing pencils and brushes, overflowing at the bottom with hide canvases stretched over wooden frames.

Lexa inspects the map, eyes tracing the streets, drawn to scale with incredible precision. "You drew this," she says, and it's not a question.

Clarke stays silent, just watching Lexa. It's so strange to see Lexa in her home, her dark Grounder clothing and much-used sword in stark relief to the simple wooden furniture and light colors Clarke used to decorate. Lexa isn't even wearing her shoulder guard, the symbol of her office. She just has light armor strapped on and Clarke can see that beneath it she's as wiry and strong as ever. Age has treated her well, though it's finally sapped the last of the youth that clung stubbornly to her face even as she turned thirty. Her cheeks seem sharper than before, but Clarke supposes that a person can change a lot in three years. A person can change in three hours.

Finally Lexa turns away from the map and faces Clarke, studying her as readily as Clarke examines her in return. "I wish to stay in Nova,” she says.

Clarke blinks. "Stay?"

Lexa's hand reaches for her hilt, though she grips it now instead of draping her arm over it. "Yes. For a while. If it is not an imposition."

"Uh." Clarke tries to find words, can hear her brain screaming deep inside that she should be better at speaking than this. "How long is a while?"

Lexa's hand tightens. "I don’t want to cause trouble. I will leave, if you wish." And she starts to do exactly that, no fanfare, just action.

"No, wait," says Clarke, hand reaching out but stopping short of touching Lexa. "It's just surprising. I haven't seen you in a long time. I wasn't expecting you at all. Of course you can stay."

Lexa seems to deflate, shoulders easing. "Thank you, Clarke."

It's so strange and so familiar to hear the way Lexa says her name. She finds she's missed it.

"I will find a suitable camping spot," Lexa says, and then tries to leave again.

"You don't have to sleep outside," says Clarke, edging towards the door. "We have some spare houses. You can stay in one of them."

"I don't wish to-"

"You're not imposing. It's okay." Clarke adds a little smile, because she knows Lexa finds hers reassuring whether she’d admit it or not. "Come on, I'll show you."

*

_Then_

Winter settles in for good, cold taking root in her bones, a permanent chill she can't seem to shake no matter how close she huddles around the fire. She's barely surviving and desperation drives her back to the cave, uncaring if there's anyone in it.

The cave is empty when she stumbles in, the few bits of dry wood she managed to gather on her way clattering out of her arms. She can barely manage to strike flint and steel together and she finds herself wishing she'd taken a lighter with her when she left Camp Jaha. She wishes a lot of things about the way she left Camp Jaha.

Just the clothes on her back, the pistol in her belt, a few things in her pockets–it's remarkable she's survived this long, really. She wouldn't have but for the odds and ends she picked up from the Grounders, from watching Octavia train, from listening to-

The tinder in the firepit finally catches. She tries not to think about what it means that there's fresh tinder here waiting for the next person. She feeds the flame a few branches, then finally adds a medium branch and feels heat start to fill the space. The cave isn't terribly deep and in the back she finds furs and more firewood covered by a dirty tarp. She adds logs, banks the fire up until it roars in her face and she has to scoot back from it lest she get burned. It's a relief to finally feel warm again.

Her body is exhausted from the cold, from shivering for hours, and she just barely manages to roll herself up in the furs before she passes out.

Her sleep is dreamless, dark, a welcome relief from months of nightmares. But she's woken short of being truly rested by a kick to her leg, and when her body instinctively jerks back, she finds the pointy end of a sword in her face.

The hunters have found her.

*

_Now_

Clarke is hesitant to leave Lexa alone. But when she asks again why Lexa has come to Nova, Lexa just purses her lips in an enigmatic little smile and says, "It was time for me to see what you built on my land."

Which doesn't make a lot of sense; Lexa visited the village four years ago on a progression through her territory and scouts routinely check their borders, bringing regular reports back to their commander. Otherwise she’s been content to leave them alone, so long as they check in during the harvest. If this were another official visit, Clarke would expect bodyguards, entourages, the usual pomp that follows Lexa around in her role as heda.

It's just Lexa today, standing in the middle of one of the empty village homes, tapping a finger on her sword in a slow rhythm.

"I'll have food brought by. And your saddlebags from the stables. And if you need more blankets there's probably some in the closet. And...I guess that's it," Clarke finishes clumsily.

Lexa actually seems amused. Clarke has very rarely seen her out and out amused. "I will be very comfortable here, Clarke. Thank you."

"Okay. So. I'll leave you alone to settle in." But still she doesn't leave, stuck to the floor while Lexa just regards her with that eerie calm she's able to muster at will.

“Is there something else you wished to discuss?” Lexa asks.

“No. I mean. No,” says Clarke. She manages a perfunctory smile and then walks out, very aware of Lexa behind her until she shuts the front door. She can see a gaggle of kids at the end of the street, watching her curiously. Everyone in the village knows that Lexa is commander of the Tree People, but the younger kids generally don’t come with the harvest caravan to Polis. It’s quite a treat for them to see her in the flesh.

“Don’t you have classes?” she calls, and they scatter, giggling.

Clarke heads for the council building, knowing everyone will want a report from her. Heda Lexa doesn’t just stop by for visits. If she’s here there must be some deeper purpose, and yet–could she really just be visiting? In the nearly fifteen years she’s known Lexa, she’s never known her to step away from her duties for more than a day or two. Lexa only truly relaxes in Polis, and that infrequently, usually during one of the big yearly Trikru celebrations. Clarke isn’t sure there’s even a Trikru word for “vacation.”

Bellamy is waiting for her in the foyer of the council building. She can see the question on his face. “Is everyone here?” she asks.

“Almost.”

“Okay.” She adjusts her shirt, straightening out her clothes even though she led the council herself for years before deciding to take a break.

Bellamy leads her to the work room off of the main hall, the place where the village councilors gather to discuss things when they’re not formally in session. There’s a large table in the middle and several whiteboards up on the walls and everyone is currently milling around inside, wondering why Lexa has come to Nova. They all stop as soon as Clarke enters. She can tell they want to hit her with a barrage of questions and she’s grateful that they don’t.

“She’s not here in any official capacity that I can tell,” Clarke says, and that sees to the last of their restraint. Instantly there’s a flood of questions, complaints, worries about this signifies. Clarke holds up her hand. “She just wanted to see the village for herself. There’s nothing wrong. I don’t think she’s here to cause trouble.”

“Then why is she here?” asks Monty.

“I...I don’t know. I just know why she’s not here. I believe her when she says she just wants to stay for a while.”

An unspoken current runs through all of them, the memory that once Clarke believed in Lexa, and Lexa betrayed them. But it’s been so long, and they’ve worked with the Tree People for years now without a problem. There’s even been some intermarriage between the groups, starting with Octavia. Then at the very first harvest festival in Polis, one of the younger warriors asked Lexa’s permission to leave because he was madly in love with a girl of the Skaikru and afterwards it became normal to see one or two people every year coming or going from the village.

“Can you get a more definite answer from her?” Bellamy asks.

“Don’t worry,” Clarke says in spite of the clamoring voice within her also demanding answers. “I’ll figure it out.”

*

_Then_

They weren’t looking for Clarke, per se. They were just a hunting party stopping in a known safe spot before returning to Tondc. But upon discovering Clarke in their hideaway, they promptly disarm her then prod her into the deepest corner of the cave with their bows trained on her.

“I’m sorry if I was trespassing,” she says.

They glare silently.

“I just needed a warm place to sleep.”

The glaring turns reticent. She doesn’t recognize any of them from Lexa’s war camp at the mountain. They look young, younger even than Clarke.

“Are you guys gonna say anything? What’s the plan here?” she asks. It’s more words than she’s strung together for a long, long time and she can feel her throat creaking with the effort. “Got any water?”

They exchange glances. One hands over a waterskin and Clarke accepts it gratefully, dribbling out a mouthful. At least now she knows they understand English.

“You’re Skaikru,” says the one who gave her the waterskin. She takes it back, drinking from it too. “Clarke kom Skaikru.”

Clarke frowns. “You know who I am?”

“All Trikru know you,” says the girl, prompting one of her hunting mates to prod her sharply. They’ve said too much, it seems.

“Well...” Clarke can see now that they’re nervous. Perhaps they were too young to join the army that marched on Mount Weather. They lack the self-assurance she’s come to associate with Grounders. “If you’re not gonna kill me, I’m gonna go back to sleep.” With that she pulls one of the furs over her legs and leans back against the cave wall. It’s not the most comfortable position, but she’s accustomed to sleeping on hard surfaces. It’s not a minute before she drifts off again.

When she wakes she can see sunlight filtering through the ragged gaps in the covering over the cave entrance. The hunters have relaxed somewhat. Two of them are asleep, while the third watches her over the top of the fire. It’s the girl, and as she sees Clarke with her eyes open, she motions with the waterskin.

Clarke holds up her hands to catch it as it’s tossed to her. The water is slightly stale, but cold, and it loosens her tongue nicely. “What’s your name?” she asks.

The girl glances at her companions, still sleeping a few feet away. She looks back at Clarke. “Anna,” she says.

“Anna,” Clarke repeats, rolling the syllables around in her mouth.

“You will come to Tondc with us,” says Anna. Her English is passable, but it’s clear she’s not entirely fluent yet. Clarke is beginning to realize how young these three are. It’s another thing to hate about this world, how the dirt and the wary eyes and the constant calculation of survival odds ages people, makes it harder to tell true ages. How she feels so old she can think of these three as children, yet still be a child herself in the eyes of many.

“Why?”

“Not allowed to wander in our territory,” says Anna.

The boys start to wake up, stirring at the sound of their voices, and Anna promptly closes her mouth. As soon as everyone is properly awake they smother the fire, then gesture for Clarke to leave the cave first. She considers bolting as soon as she’s clear of the cave entrance but she doesn’t want to bet on some twitchy tree kid not shooting her in the back with an arrow. So she lets herself be herded and for the next hour watches the three of them silence.

They stop at a stream to refill their waterskins, Anna rearing up and using her knife handle to smash through the thin layer of ice on top. She lets Clarke drink, watching her with no small amount of curiosity.

“How have you heard of me?” Clarke asks at last, still crouched by the stream.

“Oso souda gyon au gon heda,” says one of the boys, ignoring Clarke’s question to speak to Anna.

It goes by too quickly for Clarke to get the exact translation, but she hears enough. “Heda? You’re taking me to Lexa? What does she want with me?”

“Shof op,” says one of the boys, but Anna just rolls her eyes.

“Heda na tel em op,” says Anna, and they scowl, but decline to reprimand Clarke again. “Commander been looking for you since the mountain.” The way she says _the mountain_ with awe bordering on reverence makes Clarke’s skin crawl. But she supposes to the Grounders, who have long fought the Mountain Men, hearing of that place’s demise must seem like a great and wonderful omen.

“Why?”

Anna shrugs. “Just know if you found, bring you to Tondc.”

“Great,” Clarke mutters, mostly to herself. She stands up, dries her hands off on her pants. “Let’s get this over with.”

*

_Now_

Clarke brings food to Lexa herself. For one, the council all agreed Clarke should remain Lexa’s main point of contact. For another, no one else really wants to do it.

She hefts the rough sack on her shoulder and knocks on Lexa’s door, which swings open almost immediately. Lexa has removed her armor, leaving her in a simple black shirt underneath. “Clarke,” she says.

“Thought you might be hungry,” says Clarke. She waits for an invitation, only entering when Lexa stands aside, one hand gesturing.

“Thank you,” says Lexa. She doesn’t close the door, perhaps to not make Clarke feel as though she’s been penned in.

Clarke thumps the sack on the floor by the square wooden table that takes up the center of the room. Most of the houses in this part of the settlement are like Clarke’s, small but comfortable, with only two or three rooms and a few windows covered with translucent animal skins or drapes. Glass is still rare, even though they can make and process their own now instead of salvaging it. The houses are still far bigger than anything they ever had on the Ark. In the early days Clarke would marvel that she could roll over and over in bed and still not fall off. “It’s mostly the last of the winter stores,” she says. “You caught us between harvests.”

“It will be more than enough, I’m sure,” says Lexa. She looks as though she wants to help, but doesn’t want to step so far inside Clarke’s personal space. She holds herself very still as she watches Clarke pull out some loaves of bread, apples, dried meat, a goodly sack of nuts.

“Everything in the house okay?” Clarke asks.

“Is there a place to bathe?”

Clarke nearly blushes, feeling about twenty years younger than she really is. Lexa has always thrown her off balance like this. “Yeah. We designated a spot in the river. This part of the village isn’t hooked up to the public water supply. I’ll show you.”

She leaves the food behind; no one will take it. They don’t want for anything in the village unless they get a bad harvest, and after the first time an unnaturally dry summer left them short on food, they’d taken to doubling their emergency stockpile. It’s another thing that the kids in the village don’t think about that the founding adults all remember: going without, worrying about supplies, always having to think about the stress on the system.

Lexa brings her sword, slinging the belt over her shoulder. It’s a short and pleasant walk down to the river where they’ve roped off an area for bathing, complete with a floating dock that juts out into the water a short ways. Someone has tied a thick rope to a sturdy branch hanging over the river to make a swing. Clarke stops short of stepping on the dock. “Oh, soap. I can go get you soap.”

“I brought some,” says Lexa, showing Clarke the little wedge of soap she pulls out of her pocket.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” says Clarke, but Lexa clears her throat. Her mouth opens but before she can ask, Clarke has the answer. “It’s safe without anyone standing guard, Lexa.”

Her jaw clicks shut and she dips her head fractionally. And just like that she’s turning, shedding her clothes with precise, matter-of-fact movements, setting her sword on the dock. She’s just reaching for the button on her pants when Clarke has the presence of mind to turn around, but by then she’s already seen the long, smooth line of Lexa’s back, interrupted by a scattering of scars and the solid black lines of tattoos. There are a few more than she remembers, but then, it’s been years since she last saw Lexa in anything less than full Trikru garb.

“Um. Can you find your way back?” Clarke asks.

“Yes,” Lexa says, and then there’s a faint splash and Clarke can’t help but peek over her shoulder. Lexa is neck deep in the river, scrubbing vigorously at the slope of her shoulder, then down to her tricep-

“I’ll see you back at the village,” Clarke blurts, and just barely manages not to scurry away.

*

_Then_

Tondc looks astonishingly good for having taken a direct missile hit so recently. The debris is mostly clear and there are children and animals running through the streets, earning the curses of adults trying to put up new huts or cart in building materials. Heads turn as the hunting party guides Clarke along, heading for the largest tent near the center of the village. She can hear the murmuring in her wake and tries not to look to either side.

Soon they’re at the entrance to the tent, being stared at by two hulking guards. A familiar face emerges, pushing aside the flap and immediately glowering at the ragged, dirty, underfed girl in front of her.

“Indra,” says Clarke.

Indra narrows her eyes, then addresses the hunters. “Werr yu don hon em op?”

“Kom trimani,” says Anna.

Indra scowls and the hunters subtly cringe away from her.

“Is Lexa in there? Can we just get on with this?” Clarke asks.

Indra’s scowl deepens somehow; she sends the hunters on their way, Anna glancing back at Clarke but not daring to linger. “You are nothing but trouble,” Indra says.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Clarke says right back, and walks into the tent without being invited.

Lexa is waiting for her, standing by her war table where a map has been spread out instead of the model of the mountain Clarke remembers. “Leave us,” she says, and whatever the other Grounders in the tent were doing, they all stop and file out obediently. Only Indra lingers, eyes burning into Clarke who, quite frankly, resents it. Indra wasn’t the one abandoned in the middle of a war. Indra wasn’t the one left trying to cobble together a solution out of nothing. Indra wasn’t the one who had to watch innocents die terrifying, painful deaths.

Lexa gives Indra an extra flick with her chin and at last Indra obeys, slipping out but not so far Clarke can’t see her shadow still lurking around the entrance.

“What do you want?” Clarke asks. Her voice is flat, uninterested. She doesn’t actually care what Lexa wants, and she makes it obvious.

If Lexa is impressed or put out by the shortness of Clarke’s words, she doesn’t show it. Clarke hates that about her, that if Lexa wants she can simply shut down her whole face until she might as well be carved from stone. “I heard you left the Sky People camp. It is not safe to be alone, Clarke.”

“I’m doing fine, thanks.” Clarke shifts in her jacket, still feeling the chill in Lexa’s tent even though a pair of braziers burn bright on either side of her throne. Lexa, she notes, has added a fur pelt around her shoulders that drapes down over her shoulders to dangle by her hips. She looks even more regal than usual. Clarke feels more than a little unkempt; it’s been too cold to do anything but splash water on her face in the morning. Her resentment swells; she’s been living in the dirt and cold like less than a beggar, but Lexa looks warm and, if not comfortable, at least well-fed.

“That is not what my hunters reported.”

Clarke doesn’t even know when Anna and her two friends had time to tattle on her to Lexa but she bristles all the same. “You have no right to take an interest in what I do. So if that’s all, I’ll be going.”

Lexa levels a stare at her, calm but for the slightest tightening around her eyes. “Very well. I will have supplies prepared for you. You can at least accept that, or you will die this winter.”

Clarke wants to tell Lexa to throw her supplies in a fire and add a finger for good measure, but she remembers all too acutely how cold she’s been, how hard it is to find food now. Her stomach has known nothing but water all day. “Fine,” she says grudgingly, feeling petulant and not enjoying it.

She’s just about to the tent flap when Lexa speaks, so softly Clarke might have missed it if she were moving any faster. “You could stay. I won’t force you. But you are welcome to shelter here until it grows warm again.”

Again, the impulse to throw the offer back in Lexa’s face. It would feel good. She doesn’t want anything from Lexa. But her stomach pinches in on itself and an icy breeze wends around her body, chapping her exposed skin. She turns back to Lexa, hands clenching into fists. It’s a fight just to stand there, to look back at Lexa without grimacing. She flashes back to that night at the mountain, remembers how her stomach turned sour and the sorrow and fear and disappointment ran through her veins like ice. The words come out in a clench of teeth. “If I stay, it’s on my terms. I can leave whenever I want. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t want to see you.”

Lexa dips her head. “Agreed.”

“Great.” And then, in spite of herself and the brittle anger threatening to shatter into rage, she murmurs, “Thank you.”

To her credit, Lexa doesn’t seem to take it at anything but face value. She just returns to her map, effectively dismissing Clarke. “Go. Get warm. I will have someone bring you warmer clothes.”

Clarke does leave then, almost barging into Indra, still faithfully within calling distance. She pulls up short just in time. “I’m staying.”

If Indra were a less dignified woman, Clarke could see her rolling her eyes. As it is, she simply purses her lips in open disapproval. “Of course.” She says it like she was expecting it, like she was only waiting for Clarke to come find her, and Clarke almost leaves Tondc right then and there. But her pride is no match for winter.

“This way,” says Indra. She takes off at a fast clip, sword swinging with the rhythm of her stride. Clarke has to jog to catch up and when she does she doesn’t bother to say anything, just stays on Indra’s heels. They come to a small hut on the edges of the village, freshly rebuilt by the look of it. Inside there’s a small firepit, a cot piled with furs, and a waterskin dangling from a peg by the door.

“You are to stay here. Make no trouble and you will find no trouble.” And that’s all Indra has to say, leaving so abruptly that Clarke doesn’t have a chance to ask a single question.

*

_Now_

Lexa doesn’t find Clarke so much as Clarke hears the commotion of her return to the settlement. She walks serenely down one of the side streets, headed for her house, ignoring the small gaggle of children trailing after her. Clarke sends them scurrying with a _shoo_ gesture and meets Lexa in the street. Her skin is glowing from the scrubbing and already she’s picked up some color from the sun. “How was the bath?”

“Very good,” says Lexa, sword wrapped up in its belt and dangling from one hand.

They stand there, looking at each other with dusk settling all around them, birds roosting in the nearby trees and kicking up a chatter. “That’s good. Good.” Clarke nearly scuffs the ground with her toe, even though she’s been far too old for anything like that for over a decade.

“What do your people wish to know?” Lexa asks.

Clarke starts walking while she makes a guileless face which doesn’t fool Lexa for a second.

“My arrival was like throwing a rock into a bird’s nest,” she says. “Reassure them I am here temporarily. Think of it is a sort of reprieve from my duties as commander.”

“So who’s in charge while you’re gone?”

“I have been training a second. It is customary to ensure there is a responsible person to watch over our people between the end of my command and when the next commander is found.”

Clarke stops. “What do you mean end of your command?”

“It will not be for some time,” Lexa says, mouth quirking pleasantly at Clarke’s sudden concern. “It is simply wise not to leave these things to chance.”

They continue walking, Clarke feeling a little embarrassed. There’s still so much she doesn’t know about Trikru culture. “Oh.”

“Whenever I am able, I teach groups of girls. The most promising of these go on to train with me, and from them I pick seconds.”

“What about Indra?”

Lexa shakes her head. “She is a fearsome lieutenant, but not suited to lead our people. She knows this as well as I do.”

“Oh,” Clarke says again. “That’s very...self aware of her.”

“Of course she is aware of her self,” Lexa says, slightly confused but long accustomed to strange Sky People idioms and phrases.

“So...how are these girls chosen?” Clarke asks, moving on quickly from the misunderstanding.

“Any Trikru girl may come to Polis for her education. We recognize that greatness may appear in anyone, at any time.”

“Like how you were chosen,” Clarke says.

“Something like it.” And then they’re at Lexa’s house and Clarke has no more reason to talk to her, other than that she wants to. But she’s not ready for that yet.

Lexa pauses in the middle of pushing open her door, glances over her shoulder at Clarke.

“Good night, Lexa,” she says.

“Good night, Clarke,” says Lexa.

Clarke watches her door shut, and then watches it a little longer. It’s only until she sees a shadow moving in the window that she continues on her way.

*

_Then_

Clarke waits in her hut. And waits and waits and waits. Clearly, Lexa isn’t coming. There’s a bit of wood in the pit so she starts a fire and then when she’s finally warm her thoughts turn to food.

As though summoned, there’s a knock on her door frame and a timid figure pokes her head in. “Hello? Heda sent me?”

Clarke sits up straighter on her cot, folding her hands in her lap. “Hi. Come in.”

The girl comes in, all eighty scrawny pounds of her. She can’t be more then eleven or twelve and she’s hauling two sacks, one bulging, the other only about half full. “Heda says these are for you.”

Clarke accepts the bags, opening the full one first. Furs come out, including a cloak and a sturdy pair of lined boots. The other bag holds food. Clarke grabs the first thing her hand grasps and shoves it in her mouth – some kind of crunchy tuber, tasteless but dense. The girl watches her savage the tuber until there’s nothing but a scraggly root stem left. Clarke wipes juice from her chin, not embarrassed in the least by her hunger. “What’s your name?” she asks, mouth still half full. She’s already reaching for another one.

“Oro.”

“Thank you, Oro.”

The girl can’t quite look her in the eye, just stands there watching Clarke eat.

Clarke takes her in, the angular jut of her collarbones, and wonders if the Tree People even have food to share. But then she realizes Lexa would never take food out of the mouths of her people for an outsider and she eats with renewed appetite. Still, she uses her free hand to dig up another root and hands it out to Oro.

Oro just giggles. “You’re supposed to cook them first.”

“Will they make me sick if I don’t?”

An amused shake of the head.

Clarke shrugs and chews, taking back the root for herself. “What do you call these?”

“ _Grounna_ ,” says Oro.

“Grounna,” Clarke repeats thoughtfully, trying to mimic the pronunciation exactly.

If Oro was shy at first, watching Clarke sloppily eat raw roots has helped her get over it with a quickness. “You’re Clarke Kom Skaikru.”

Clarke pauses for half a chew, but keeps going like the notoriety doesn’t bother her. Like she doesn’t mind that her name is known because of the body count attached to it.

“You brought down the mountain.”

More chewing.

“Are you coming to Polis with us?”

Clarke finally bothers to look up from her food. “Polis?”

“Heda is going to Polis tomorrow. She just told me.”

“Lexa told you personally?” Clarke has never seen Lexa speak to any Trikru but her warriors and she can’t imagine her actually deigning to deal with children.

“I’ll get to serve her in Polis,” Oro says, puffing up her narrow chest with pride. “Of all the girls in Tondc she’s only taking two of us with her.”

“Mini-Lexas. Great,” Clarke mutters to herself. She cocks an eye at Oro. “So you’re just here to watch me eat?”

“I’m supposed to bring you anything you need. But it has to be today because tomorrow-”

“Polis,” Clarke finishes for her. She should be ecstatic. A winter in Tondc but minus Lexa? It’s ideal. But all she can think about is the night they took Mount Weather, when Lexa invited her to come to Polis, hope lighting her eyes. There’s too many familiar faces in Tondc, people who survived the missile in spite of her. “What’s Polis like this time of year?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lexa's palace is [Bancroft Hall](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bancroft_Hall), along with the remnants of the Naval Academy at Annapolis.

_Now_

Clarke has trouble sleeping knowing that Lexa is basically down the block. It’s one thing to believe that Lexa hasn’t brought trouble to Nova, it’s another to not really know why she’s there at all. Eventually she has to get out her sketchbook, putting down little bits and pieces from her day to free herself from the nonstop stream of thought running like a current through her mind. On a fresh page she makes a smooth stroke, fully intending to draw the river from this morning, but then she adds another, and another, and soon a lithe woman’s body takes shape as viewed from behind. Clarke shades in the complex interplay of muscles, the spare but well-defined shoulders leading into the clean, slender neckline. She doesn’t add in the tattoos; she at least has enough self control for that.

She drifts off late, too late, and wakes up long after sunrise. She can already tell by the shortness of the shadows in her bedroom that she’s late for the class she teaches on basic first aid. Swearing, she throws off the covers and pulls on clothes, just barely remembering to grab her satchel on the way out.

She nods hurriedly to the few people she sees on the way to the school, more focused on remembering what her lesson plan is for the day. They’re beginning respiratory emergencies and she’s already apologizing as she steps into the classroom and finds it deadly quiet. That gives her pause, getting her head out of her bag where she’s digging for her textbook. Normally the kids would be taking advantage of her tardiness, laughing and being loud, but today they’re in their assigned seats, hardly fidgeting, with nary a sound between all twenty of them.

Twenty-one, she realizes, spotting a familiar dark figure in the back. Lexa is seated at a desk, hands folded calmly in front of her, regarding Clarke with an air of expectation.

She wants to ask what Lexa is doing but everyone is looking between the two of them. So she turns to the chalkboard and pretends like it’s any other day in class. _Respiratory emergencies_ she writes on the board in large, even letters. She turns back, brushing dust off of her hands. “Today we’re going to learn how to clear an airway in various situations.”

Her eyes keep flickering to Lexa of their own accord, even though Lexa hasn’t budged an inch since Clarke entered. She’s just sitting there, back straight, eyes bright and curious. Clarke clears her throat and begins drawing the anatomy of the throat and lungs, labeling things as she goes. Her students reluctantly take notes; she can tell they’re all dying inside for Lexa to do something, for Clarke to lose her cool, for the two of them to butt heads or even exchange words. All children know the basic history of the Sky People, beginning with the near-century on the Ark, followed by the Hundred, then those early days of one-step-forward-two-steps-back with the Tree People. Every child knows the name _Heda Lexa Kom Trikru_.

The younger ones have no fear of her, though. The treachery that was a lived-through experience for their elders is nothing but a footnote to them. In their minds Lexa is the commander of their allies, the ones who protect the village and show up after harvests for the best party on Earth. The village council creeps cautiously around Lexa, waiting for the strike, but the children in this classroom only see a stern woman in all black who could give their teacher a bit of good sport.

When Clarke is done labeling, she has everyone push their chairs against the wall for the practical demonstration portion of class. She unrolls a mat stored in a locker for just this purpose and looks around, needing a volunteer. Lexa is still watching her, still silent. Clarke follows her impulse and calls for her. “Commander,” she says, then gestures to the mat. 

Lexa pauses just long enough for Clarke to get the message–Lexa is doing this to humor her but she could just as easily leave–then lies down with a measure of grace. Clarke kneels by her head, looking around at her students. “First situation, the patient’s spine is clear and they’re unconscious.” She lowers her hands to Lexa’s head, stopping short and hovering until Lexa gives her the slightest nod. Then Clarke guides Lexa’s head into the correct position, tilting it backwards gently with one hand on her forehead and the other under her chin. She feels the smooth skin of Lexa’s throat, the sharp cut of her jawline. Beneath her, Lexa looks up with trusting eyes. 

They run through more scenarios, each time with Clarke demonstrating and Lexa quietly pliant in her hands. Time is up soon since Clarke was late, and she lets the children leave on time instead of holding them for a complete lesson. She doesn’t think she could spend another fifteen minutes softly touching Lexa’s face.

The children file out, albeit not without several unsubtle glances over shoulders. Lexa stands in one neat movement and watches Clarke roll up the mat, then place it back in its locker. “You’re a good teacher,” she says.

Clarke wants to press her forehead against the locker’s cool metal doors, just to get her bearings. But she can’t. Lexa will see and know how Clarke is off balance, how she can’t focus, can’t think clearly. “Thank you.” A fortifying breath, and then she shuts the locker and turns around. “How did you know about my class?”

“I asked,” Lexa says simply.

“Right. Of course.” Now that she has a moment, Clarke can feel her stomach gurgling from missing breakfast. “Are you hungry?”

Lexa nods.

It’s nearly lunch so Clarke leads Lexa to the marketplace. Harvest stores are communal, but some people have set up stalls to trade their excess rations as cooked meals. Lexa looks around the lines of stalls with interest, taking in the bright colors, the smell of smoked meat hanging heavy in the air, the children darting in and out of adults trying to trade. “The village is thriving,” she comments. They pass a booth with dyed cloth hanging in sheets and her hand twitches from its customary resting place on the hilt of her sword. Clarke can tell she wants to reach out and touch, so she does it for Lexa, taking the cloth between her fingers and rubbing. The man in the booth perks up. 

“All new colors,” he says. “Discovering new dyes all the time.” He offers up a large bolt of cloth in a rich glacier hue, more to Clarke than to Lexa. 

“There’s been more color in Polis since we began trading with you,” Lexa says, hand just barely skimming the cloth before falling to her side. She fixes the man with a predatory look. “What will you accept for it?”

He swallows, hands clutching his wares and stammering.

Lexa pulls a knife out of her boot and the man cringes even harder; he’s old enough that he must have come down with the Ark. He remembers the fear from the early days, when all Grounders were terrifying in their strangeness. But she places it on the stall’s counter and waits for him to assess it, from the sharp four-inch blade to the polished wood handle wrapped in some kind of black twine. 

“Oh, that’s too much, commander. Let me add...” He starts pulling another bolt of fabric from beneath his bench, this one in a deep purple. Clarke tries to get him to stop but he won’t be deterred, folding up the purple and the blue neatly and handing them over with a slight bow of his head. Lexa accepts them with one hand and pushes the knife closer with the other. 

“Are you sure?” Clarke asks. 

“I am still hungry, Clarke,” Lexa says, and takes a step that opens up her body, indicating Clarke should lead on.

Clarke thanks the vendor, who seems only too glad to be shut of them. “What are you going to do with those?” she asks, watching Lexa absentmindedly touch the cloth hanging over one arm.

“They’re for you,” Lexa says, holding out her arm.

Clarke almost misses a step. “You traded for them. They’re yours,” she says, trying to avoid Lexa’s arm without pushing her away. 

“If they’re not to your liking...” Lexa doesn’t sound hurt but the way her arm pulls back in to her body is all the evidence Clarke needs.

“How about this,” she says. She pulls the blue cloth free and leaves the purple behind. 

Lexa seems satisfied. “Fair.”

“It’ll be fair when I feed you.” Clarke finds her favorite booth, holds up two fingers, then a pouch of medicinal herbs from her bag and cocks her eyebrow. The woman nods and passes over two skewers of meat, juicy and still sizzling from the grill. Clarke gives one to Lexa, who looks at it appraisingly, then sinks her teeth into it. She manages a surprisingly neat maneuver to get a clean bite but Clarke ends up with juice running down her chin. She rubs hastily at the trail of grease but Lexa doesn’t seem to care. “Good?” Clarke asks through her teeth, food still in her mouth.

“Yes.”

“Come on then.” Clarke takes them towards the river so they can eat in peace, without half the village gawking at them. At Lexa. She finds a grassy, well-shaded spot just outside of the village and they finish their meals in silence, watching the river and not each other. When they’re down to their skewers they sit, still not talking. Clarke idly strokes her new cloth, admiring the good job the vendor did with the dye. 

“It matches your eyes,” Lexa says suddenly.

Clarke stops touching the cloth. She looks down at where Lexa’s hand rests in the grass, propping up her body. “Is that why you got it?”

Lexa’s voice is calm, almost detached. “Yes.” 

“I have another class,” says Clarke. She stands up, brushing off her pants and shaking blades of grass from Lexa’s gift. Lexa watches her, shadows playing over her face as a breeze slips through the branches overhead. “Maybe you’d like to help me teach this one too?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa doesn’t quite smile, but her face shifts into something more open, pleasant even. “Perhaps.” She stands up too and together they walk back to the village.

*

_Then_

Clarke half expects Lexa to reject her when she joins the group going to Polis. For certain she receives her most resentful glare yet from Indra, but Lexa murmurs something to an attendant and another horse is brought for Clarke. Lexa moves them out as soon as Clarke is mounted, not giving her a second glance, which suits Clarke well. She wants, for once, to just do things without a dozen voices clamoring for explanation, demanding to know her every motivation. She wants to see Polis. She’s going to Polis.

She’s still not entirely used to riding horses. She hasn’t been on one since – she tries not to think about that time, when things finally were starting to move in the right direction. The killing stopped, or at least had temporarily ebbed. Her people trusted her. They believed in her. She believed in Lexa. She believed anything at all.

Clarke feels fine after the first few hours and waits impatiently through the first break, watering her horse and then doing her best not to stare at Lexa, who obviously sets the timetable for moving out. 

The next few hours are okay, but she can sense fatigue in her thighs. During the second break she stretches out her legs as best she can, surreptitiously massaging her muscles and wishing for a foam roller like they had in the Ark’s gymnasium.

The last leg of the trip to Polis she can tell she’ll be sore the next day. She almost misses as they emerge from the trees and cross Polis’ outer boundaries, sentries heralding their arrival with horns echoing in a chain all the way back to the city. She can see smudges in the distance that must be buildings. The closer they get, the more people she sees, the huts growing thicker and sturdier. Eventually the huts turn into houses, and the worn dirt road shows signs of having once been paved with asphalt. People are lining the road on both sides, calling out _heda, heda_ while Lexa rides at the front of her entourage, head held high. 

Clarke watches everyone curiously until she catches some of them watching her in return. She can see them murmuring, and then she realizes she might have made a mistake if her infamy has spread even this far. She should have covered her face if she wanted to ride into the most densely populated part of the Tree People’s territory. It’s too late to turn back now.

There’s an outer palisade, constructed much more recently than the rest of the city but sturdy nonetheless. It’s mostly tall, thick trunks, sharpened at the ends and embedded deeply in the ground with a walkway at the top for sentries. An outer ring of sharpened stakes, both metal and wood, angles out from the base of the palisade. They have to wait until the guards pull open a heavy gate, and then they pass through the outer ring. There are houses here too, but still crumbling, slightly ramshackle, not a single one without patchwork fixes. The inner wall is a mix of stone and wood, much thicker and taller than the outer defenses. There’s a gatehouse with a double porticullis, both of which are cranked up while the guards high on the wall continue shouting for Lexa’s return, making Clarke think that she must have been gone some time. 

Then they ride into Polis proper, and Clarke almost can’t believe what she’s seeing. The city has been well preserved, almost like something out of her classes on the Ark. The buildings are grubby but remarkably intact and the streets are crowded with people, all of whom push aside to form a cordon for the returning commander. The main thoroughfare into the city is broad enough for five or six horses to ride abreast, and Lexa follows it straight to a large stone building fronted by a broad, flat yard. One wing of the building has crumbled, concrete rubble caved in, but the rest of it stands strong and proud. Two curving ramps flank the entrance in the center, where a flight of stone steps leads up to a huge door with carved stone columns on either side. Clarke nearly bumps into the rider in front of her, so caught up in her staring. He glares balefully at her, then nudges his horse off to the side where attendants are waiting to take people’s mounts. Clarke follows him, handing her horse off and trying to blend in.

Lexa dismounts and climbs the steps, turning when she’s at the top, framed neatly by the door. “Kru kom Polis,” she begins, and the crowd that has followed them into the yard immediately quiets down.

Clarke manages to pick out a few words, hears Tondc named. From what she can gather Lexa is explaining why she was gone and what she’s been doing. Lexa speaks very briefly and when she’s done, her nod of dismissal sends people away just as quickly as they came. Lexa’s guards push open the heavy double doors and Lexa strides in, coat and mantle trailing after her. Clarke is left outside, completely unsure as to where she’s supposed to go or if she’s supposed to follow Lexa. She looks around for Indra, but she’s nowhere to be found either, presumably already at Lexa’s side. So Clarke gives a mental shrug and walks right into the building only to find herself stunned yet again.

Polished stone floor gleams at her from underfoot. When she looks up, arched ceilings soar overhead. They’re damaged by soot and dirt but she can see that underneath there’s elaborate molding. In the center of the ceiling is a round skylight with most of the glass still intact, filtering the last of the day’s sunlight so that the rotunda is dim but for a few torches. There are more carved stone columns and staircases and Clarke takes the most direct path forward, assuming that Lexa will probably be in the biggest and most important room. 

Eventually she finds her way upstairs to a long, large room. This one is not as nice as the ones downstairs, the floor stripped down to grimy wood and the skylight long since blown out and repaired with a slanted metal and wood roof to allow water runoff. But it’s still impressive, far more impressive than anything else in the Grounder villages. A massive table dominates the room and the raised dais at the far end tells Clarke this is where Lexa spends most of her time working. She’s about to approach when she feels a tug on her sleeve. 

“Clarke Kom Skaikru,” says Oro, slightly out of breath. “I’m supposed to show you to your quarters.” And she practically drags Clarke away from the hall before she can take in any more of it.

The grandeur of the building fades into a more utilitarian design the farther they go, until Oro stops outside of a room in a long hallway filled with similar-looking doors. Some of the rooms are missing doors entirely, replaced with thick curtains, and the floor underneath is concrete worn smooth from countless feet. Clearly this part of the building is still in regular use and she doesn’t know whether to be relieved or wary that she’s not being isolated from everyone. She’s gotten used to solitude.

Oro pushes open the door—no creaking from the hinges, so someone has been oiling them regularly—and ushers Clarke inside. It’s much the same as her hut in Tondc, with a simple cot along one wall. This room also has a wobbly-looking desk, and a tall wooden cabinet that looks too new to be part of the building’s original furniture. Oro pulls the cabinet open, showing her how there are clean clothes inside.

“Whose clothes are these?” Clarke asks, not wanting to put anyone out but at the same time aware that she has nothing but what she carries on her person. 

“Yours,” Oro says simply, then pulls a sack out from under the desk. The sack is full of food, and Clarke suddenly has so many questions. Oro sighs, her initial awe at meeting the woman who destroyed the Mountain Men long since evaporated into a kind of impatient tolerance.

“If you have to be somewhere else—” Clarke begins.

“No,” Oro says, adding another sigh. “I am supposed to answer all your questions. Heda commands it.”

Clarke narrows her eyes, her first instinct to reject that which Lexa has put directly in her path. But as she stands in a room assigned to her by Lexa in the middle of the Grounder capital, she realizes how ridiculous it would be to reject Oro’s help. She’s far too entrenched with the Tree People now to believe that she’s still completely independent. So she goes back out into the hallway. “How about a tour?” she asks, tilting her eyebrows.

Oro spends the next hour carefully guiding her around, showing her the baths, the communal areas, the places Clarke isn’t supposed to go at all under pain of death from Heda’s guards. Clarke has Oro dig up a scrap of parchment, and then she starts sketching a map of the building based on Oro’s descriptions. It’s not very detailed, but it has most of the main corridors and some of the more prominent locations noted. It’s hideously late when she finally lets Oro leave, only slightly guilty at seeing the girl try to stifle a yawn. Clarke almost yawns herself, fatigued after a long ride and the excitement of a completely new, strange place.

She manages to find her room again and doesn’t even bother shucking her clothes before falling onto the cot in a deep, dreamless sleep.

*

_Now_

It’s been two days and Clarke has almost worked up the nerve to ask Lexa why she’s really in Nova. She hasn’t known Lexa to spend a single day away from her responsibilities, not even the winter a particularly bad flu virus swept through Polis and killed many of the old and infirm. Lexa had dealt with it while her immune system waged its own war, nearly fainting in the middle of consulting the Sky People medical envoy about treatment. 

She can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Lexa’s primary—her _only_ concern has always been her people, and even if that includes the Sky People now, she’s never far from a Trikru village if she can help it. 

Lexa isn’t in Clarke’s morning class, but she is waiting outside of it after it’s over. Clarke steps down into the street, watching Lexa, who is leaning against the front of the building with unstudied casualness. “How long have you been waiting?” she asks.

“Not long.” Lexa stands up straight. She smiles, small but genuine, making her eyes crinkle at the corners. It makes her look far younger than her years, which is saying something when the years weigh as heavily on a person as they do Lexa. She isn’t in armor either, just in her usual dark pants and shirt, although a dagger hangs at the small of her back and Clarke can see another peeking out of the top of her right boot. Lexa ignores Clarke’s visual scan and folds her arms. “Are you hungry?”

Clarke isn’t quite, not with an hour or so to go until lunchtime, but she would be a fool to turn down a clear invitation. She joins Lexa, who has a sack over one shoulder and leads them not towards the market, but back to their place by the river. When they’re standing in shade, Lexa pulls out a blanket and spreads it on the ground, then removes some fruit and bread and preserved meat. 

“It’s a picnic,” Clarke says, staring at everything.

“Pi-nick,” Lexa repeats curiously. 

“Never mind,” Clarke says, sitting down and going over the food just to have something to do. She recognizes some of the supplies she brought to Lexa a few days ago but the bread is fresh, baked just that morning. “Where did you get this?”

“I traded for it,” Lexa says, taking a roll for herself and breaking it in half. “The hunting is good here. Game is plentiful.”

“Right. Of course.” Clarke takes a roll too and bites into it. Lexa rummages in her satchel and pulls out a small tub of jam, making Clarke smile to herself. After the Sky People found a wild strain of sugarcane and wrangled it into a harvest, they started producing preserves as fast as they could find containers and the Tree People went nuts for them. They only knew sugarcane as a good but fibrous chew; the knowledge of refining it into raw sugar returned with the Arkers. Jams and sweets are one of their most-traded products. Clarke has made sure to include warnings about dental care with their trade goods.

Lexa smears jam liberally on her roll, but leaves plenty for Clarke, who doesn’t take as much. Clarke prefers butter; there was precious little dairy on the Ark and most of the time they got margarine, when they got any kind of spread at all. On the ground they make it from goat’s milk, along with cheese. All the food sciences and recipes they were keeping in anticipation of their return the ground have paid off, allowing them to prosper with a minimum of experimentation or failure.

Lexa eats thoroughly, methodically, taking exactly half the food and no more. With less hunger in her belly, Clarke finds herself with leftovers and nudges them towards Lexa. “All yours,” she says, and when Lexa still hesitates, adds, “I’m full. Really.”

So Lexa takes the rest, still eating in that methodical way of hers, and Clarke tries not to stare at the way her lips close around a dried apricot, or the smooth working of her hands as she draws the knife from the sheath at the small of her back and slices a pear. “You seem to be settling in pretty well,” she says when Lexa is between bites.

“Your people traded fairly with me,” says Lexa, which isn’t precisely what Clarke was asking for but gives her a decent idea of Lexa’s day anyway. She smiles, happy and, to be honest, a bit relieved.

“That’s good. Although you don’t have to trade if you don’t want to. I can bring food by the house. We have plenty.”

Lexa frowns. “That would set a bad example.”

“It would be not worrying about where your next meal is coming from while you’re my guest,” says Clarke. Her instinct is to lean in and nudge Lexa, shoulder to shoulder, but Lexa still doesn’t seem the type to invite casual touch. Even as life grew easier and Tree and Sky grew closer and the Grounder clans worked out new partnerships, it always seemed to Clarke on their visits to Polis that Lexa drew deeper within herself. This is the most open she’s seen Lexa in years, the most words they’ve exchanged maybe since the last time they renegotiated Nova’s boundaries. 

“I will earn my keep while I am here,” Lexa says, and that’s the end of that. Clarke won’t be changing her mind, so she lets Lexa have the last of the dried apricots and makes a mental note to bring Lexa a bow and arrow from the armory. 

“So you’ve just been hunting?” Clarke asks.

“And exploring.”

“I could’ve showed you the village.”

Lexa nods. “I know. I left that for last. I’ve been scouting the village perimeter.”

Clarke holds back a sigh; Grounder habits die hard, especially because they’re so essential to Grounder survival. “We have a regular patrol.”

Lexa takes on that faintly rote tone she carries when instructing children. “I do not like to be unfamiliar with any place I stay, Clarke. It is a good habit to always be aware of your surroundings.” 

And Clarke understands. It took her years to truly stop looking over her shoulder, wondering when someone might come along to burn down the village or raid them in the night. And there had been some threats, but nothing they couldn’t handle, and nine times out of ten these days Clarke sleeps well. She backtracks a bit. “You left the village for me to show you around?”

“Is that not what you want?” Lexa asks, face completely serious but for the teasing quirk in her eyebrow.

“All right, fine. You’d better know where everything is if you’re going to be staying here.” Clarke pushes herself up and Lexa rises with her, packing up their things, meticulously folding the blanket and fitting it all in the sack. Clarke leads her in the general direction of the village, taking a wide loop so they can swing through the industrial zone. They’ve put the tannery and foundry and abattoir out here; basically anything noisy or smelly gets zoned for the perimeter, downstream of their bathing and drinking water. Raven’s workshop is also out here due to, quote, “a minor possibility of explosions now and then” and Clarke steers them clear of her building.

“You have no other duties today?” Lexa asks as they wander slowly past the foundry. 

“Some. Nothing critical. And not for a while.” Which isn’t strictly true. She’s going to be late for a council meeting in about ten minutes, but she justifies it since they’re just going to ask her about Lexa anyway. She might as well see if she can get her to relax enough to talk more openly. 

Lexa beats her to the punch with another question. “No one is expecting you?”

“No one in particular,” Clarke says. 

“You spend much of the day with me. I don’t wish to occupy your time if it is at someone else’s expense.”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” Lexa’s solicitousness is starting to worry her again. Lexa demands, orders, dictates. She doesn’t ask permission. “Are you okay?”

Lexa blinks, as though the question has startled her. “I am fine, Clarke.”

“I just know you don’t like to be away from your people for long. So you know, if you’re worried, we could maybe send a messenger—”

“I am kept well-informed of what is happening with my people,” Lexa interrupts smoothly, but without menace. “Some of my warriors are camped an hour’s ride away. If anything requires my immediate attention, they will find me.”

“Oh.” Clarke should have known. She takes a turn so they can walk past the small dyeworks, a few people milling around a table of bright pigments. Lexa seems interested, so Clarke guides them closer. The people at the table rearrange themselves on one side, deferring to their presence. Clarke can see a few of them watching Lexa, but with curiosity instead of trepidation. Word of her low-key dealings in the village has spread quickly, just like most gossip in Nova, and everyone wants to know what Lexa is going to do next. 

Clarke would not have predicted that Lexa would hover her hand over the brilliant blue that probably went into the cloth she acquired for Clarke, silently asking permission from the woman who seems to be in charge. She nods shortly, intimated into silence even though with her face scrubbed clean and her hair mostly loose, Lexa looks almost like any villager out for a walk. They aren’t quite scared of her, but she’s still the slightly inhuman figure of the Commander, who fought a war and put down an insurrection to forge the lasting peace they know today. 

Lexa dabs her pointer finger into the pigment with a dainty motion and pulls it back to inspect the faint dusting of color on her fingertip. 

“We make it from a mixture of cobalt and—” one of the young men begins, but the woman silences him with a glance. 

“We’ll just be over here if you need anything,” says the woman, and drags the two boys on either side of her some distance away.

“This is a good color,” says Lexa, still regarding her finger intensely. She flicks her eyes up to Clarke’s, the rest unspoken.

Clarke’s mouth is suddenly dry, and she wets her lips with her tongue. “Come on,” she says hoarsely. “I want to show you the rest of the village.”

*

_Then_

Clarke wakes up stiff, feeling it in her core and thighs the most. She tries to roll over and stops abruptly, feeling the strain in her muscles, and just lies flat on her back for a few minutes. 

It’s early; she can tell from the way the light filters through the single dirty window in her room. Outside she hears the sounds of a city waking up, carts rolling along the streets, birds calling to each other on the water. There’s a smell that she hadn’t been able to quite pin down yesterday, too busy learning about the city and getting her bearings, but today she can sense how it hangs heavy in the air. Heavy, but not overbearing. 

Eventually she manages to roll herself off her cot, pushing herself into a sitting position with a groan. She sniffs experimentally and wrinkles her nose at the baked-in smell of sweat and horse. 

Oro showed her where the baths were yesterday so she grabs a fresh set of clothes and walks down the hall, wondering who else lives here. This part of the building is for visitors, Oro told her, but hadn’t told her who else was visiting. The baths are at the end, mostly stone, but with patchy remnants of tiling here and there. The floor slopes towards a drain in the middle. There’s even a crumbling mirror on one wall, the last remaining section of what was three in a row to form a longer mirror. Clarke looks into it without thinking and has to blink a few times. 

It’s not that she doesn’t recognize herself, not really. She looks dirty and pale and thin but she knows her own face. But she hasn’t seen her own face in _so long_. She looks like a harder, older version of the image she carries of herself in her head. And why shouldn’t she, when she _is_ harder and older. She leans closer, trying to pick out the differences. She’s not even halfway to nineteen, and she can tell she’ll soon have lines on her face from frowning. The skin under her eyes is bruised even though she slept hard. She probably could have stood to go another few hours, but her body is used to waking with the sun now. 

She finally leaves the mirror and figures out how to work the simple pump along one wall, pushing and pulling the lever until she’s collected a large bucket of fresh water. They must draw it from the river; when Clarke dips a finger in, it’s bracingly cold. She uses her dirty shirt as a washcloth and wipes off the worst of the grime, then takes a deep breath and sluices the bucket over her head, just barely managing not to shriek. More scrubbing, another bucket of water to rinse, a vigorous shake, and then she hurriedly pulls on her clean clothes. She wrings out her dirty clothes and brings them with her, wishing for a bar of soap for a proper wash.

In her room she hangs her wet clothes to dry, then pulls on her jacket and boots. She realizes then that she just left her things in a room with no lock, expecting everything to be there when she returned. It’s not just that she seems to be alone on this hall; it’s that Polis has the feel of an orderly city. She wouldn’t think Lexa tolerates much crime.

Rummaging through her food sack yields some stale bread and dried meat, which she devours, hungry after her bath. 

And then she sits on her bed, contemplating her little map of the palace and wondering if Oro is going to come fetch her. She knows she’s free to move about, at least anywhere the common citizens are allowed to go. She comes to a swift decision, standing up and leaving, bringing only her map with her. She does what she wants now. If no one’s given her a good reason why she shouldn’t do something, then she’s going to do it.

The streets are busier than when she woke up. The sky is overcast and there are puddles here and there rimmed with ice; it must have rained overnight. Not quite cold enough for snow yet, but soon. She can see her breath misting in the air and wishes for a thick pair of gloves. Her hands get jammed deep into her jacket pockets. 

She gets a few odd glances, but no one stops her. She knows she doesn’t quite fit in, despite her Grounder clothes. Maybe it’s the way she walks a bit hesitantly, like someone who doesn’t quite know where she’s going. Or maybe in such a clannish, close-knit society, they’ve learned to spot outsiders a mile away. Either way she stays alert as she makes her way to the market that Oro told her about the day before.

She smells it long before she sees it. It’s almost pungent, permeating everything around her, but leavened by the fresh breeze coming in off the water. That _thing_ in the air is stronger here and she realizes it must be the proximity of the ocean. She’s read all her life about ocean air, imagined reaching the shores of some vast and unfathomable mass of water. All that space, wide open to the first brave soul who cared to touch it. 

She keeps walking, turns a corner, and there’s the market laid out before her in long, crowded lanes. Wooden stalls stretch all the way down to the quay, where she can see simple ships bobbing in the water. The water forms a wide channel, and then beyond that, a huge bay. If she remembers her geography correctly—she used to know every curve and cut and sweep of the continents from staring down at the Earth when she still had a window on the Ark—the bay leads to the Atlantic Ocean. For a wild moment she has the idea to take a boat and just keep sailing until she reaches the ocean, but she remembers just as quickly she doesn’t know how to sail. 

She slips through the market, dodging people in a hurry, people looking to make bargains, people trying to push things in her face to sell. There are booths stocked with piles of simple cloth, new and scavenged clothes, roots and vegetables, butchered meats, even one for just shoes. There’s a low-level din all around her, the hubbub of a hundred voices chattering in Trigedasleng. As she gets closer to the water the stalls shift almost exclusively to seafood, which she’s only seen in books until now. There’s lots of fish, lying out on scale-covered boards, and oysters and clams and mussels in buckets of water. There’s a few crabs too, still moving groggily in their crates. This close she can tell the pungent smell from earlier was the fish. 

She wants to stop and sketch, but she forgot doesn’t have a notebook, so she moves on, following the water, wandering along the edge of the inlet. She watches a few boats come in and out, tries to figure out what this place might have looked like in its prime before a century of erosion lapped away at it. She finds a quiet spot and sits through the tides, the sun rising high in the sky, and no one bothers her. She finds the background hum of noise comforting. The silence of the woods was almost too much like her cell on the Ark; sometimes it was worse with not even an electrical hum or a clomp of boots to remind her that other people existed. The woods let her think, but that was all she did. Food, water, shelter, sleep, and nothing else to do but think and think and think. But here the sounds of the city keep her from sinking too deeply within herself, let her shake off her glum contemplation when the sun is low on the horizon and the vendors start closing up their stalls.

Clarke stands up, her muscles stiff and bones creaking, and stretches from her toes out to her fingertips. She realizes then how hungry she is, having not eaten since her scraps at breakfast. There are other people leaving the palace when Clarke returns, Grounders in simpler clothes than the elaborate leather and armor all the warriors around Lexa seem to wear. One of them has an armful of scrolls, which scatter when he trips almost directly in front of Clarke. He stands up, groaning over the scrolls he crushed under his body, and Clarke stoops to help him gather up his papers. 

“Mochof,” he says without looking up, but when Clarke hands him a handful of scrolls, he snatches his hands back.

“Clarke kom Skaikru,” he says, half to himself, the reverence and something close to fear easy to hear in his voice.

Clarke freezes. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says, switching to English. Hastily, he takes his scrolls, clutching them all in a haphazard bunch to his chest, nearly bowing to her as he backs up and then speeds off. 

Clarke watches him leave with mounting frustration. Polis is fascinating, but if this is going to keep happening, she’ll have to find a way to move on. She doesn’t like the way the Grounders treat her for murdering everyone in the mountain. She doesn’t like that she’s starting to hear a little voice within, whispering that maybe she can forgive herself if it means this much to the Tree People to be free of the mountain. The pain, the horror at killing, that’s the only thing that reminds her she’s human right now. Without that she’s not sure what she is.

“There you are,” says Oro, startling her. “I’m to show you to dinner.”

Clarke follows immediately, the mention of food enough to pre-empt any questions or comments. 

Oro takes them through the palace up to a large common room on the second floor where the windows are open to the evening air, tattered but matching curtains billowing lazily and letting the sunset wink through. There are long tables set up end to end in lines, and a raised dais at the far end with a few chairs at a high table. “Oro,” Clarke begins, looking at the chair in the center of the dais. It’s larger than the others, with huge piercing deer antlers crowning its top. “I’d rather eat alone, if that’s okay.”

“Heda will not be in attendance tonight,” Oro says matter-of-factly.

“No, that’s not—I mean, I just prefer—”

“Her instructions were that you were never to be in her sight.” Oro frowns. “Is this a Sky People custom? Are you not allowed to socialize with other clan leaders?”

Clarke can’t tell if she’s grateful or resentful or both that Lexa has taken to heart her demands from Tondc. The confusion makes her angry at first, and then thinking of Lexa makes her angrier, and then she can see Oro shrinking slightly at the no doubt fierce expression on her face. It takes a breath or two to calm down before she manages a small, tight smile. “Something like that. If you see her, tell Lexa I appreciate the space.”

“I will,” says Oro, still frowning. She disappears into a side passage and comes back with two plates heaped with roasted meat and vegetables. She also brings a pitcher of water. It’s just the two of them eating in the dining hall for a few minutes and Clarke wants to laugh that her only friend at the moment is a child almost half her age. She’s not even sure Oro is her friend, or if she’s just her commander-approved watchdog. 

Other people trickle in, seating themselves on the other side of the room. Food is brought to them, a man emerging from the same side passage Oro used. Clarke figures it leads to the kitchens. The others are dressed like warriors, minus a lot of the armor, and she can see them sneaking glances at her as much as she does at them. “So what do you do all day in Polis?” Clarke asks, trying not to seem like she’s ignoring Oro.

“Today I was allowed to sharpen all of Heda’s weapons and then Har and I observed her mediating a dispute between two village elders!” Oro says with her mouth full. 

As Oro continues to chatter, Clarke thinks about Lexa seeing to the internal needs of her people. It’s not something she’s really contemplated before, although admittedly they were all preoccupied with external threats. Somehow she can’t quite picture Lexa dealing with petty administrative matters, or anyone daring to bring such things to her. It reminds her how little she really knows about Grounder society. She wonders if Octavia knows. “Oro,” she says when the girl finally takes a breath to eat some more. “Can you tell me more about that stuff? You know, when you observe Heda.”

The girl is only too happy to keep going.

In Polis, Lexa is known for her levelheadedness and fair dealing and aloofness. In Polis, Lexa’s word is law not just because her body houses the spirit of the commander, but because she’s kept them safe since she took up her mantle. Oro alludes to previous hedas whose marriage of spirit and body didn’t go so well, who ruled too harshly or with too soft a hand. The Tree People seem to have a good written history going back at least three or four commanders, with an oral tradition filling in before that. Commanders tend to die fairly young as well, so they have a number of examples to compare and contrast. Lexa’s predecessor died in a bloody battle with the Ice Nation twenty years ago.

But in Polis, there are also whispers that the commander chose the wrong path for once. The mountain could have been taken. The cost in lives might have been worth it. Blood must have blood – and the mountain has been taking Grounder blood for years. Decades. Generations. What was a little more blood, willingly given? Clarke kom Skaikru defeated the mountain. No one seems to know the particulars, for which she’s thankful. They just know she went in alone and when she emerged, the mountain was no more. Oro doesn’t have to say it; Clarke can read between the lines that they’re almost terrified of her.

She loses most of her appetite after that.

*  
_Now_

Lexa asks to see the fields, so they cut back through the industrial zone and go up to the border of the fields closest to the village. A few people are at work, pulling cabbages and greens out of the soil, shaking them off, piling them in baskets. Older children are helping with the harvesting, unloading full baskets into a cart and bringing empties back. Some of the younger children run along the harvested furrows, barefoot and enjoying the sun-warmed earth. Lexa watches them with an inscrutable, but not unpleasant, expression. Clarke wonders if she ever planned a family with Costia, if she dreamed of a baby and a warm home. 

The vegetable fields give way to wheat, still with a couple of months left until harvest. There are acres and acres of it from their recent expansion, made possible with Lexa’s permission. “This is what you helped build,” Clarke says. She leads Lexa through the fields, stalks brushing against their knees. 

“My people have prospered as well,” Lexa says diplomatically. “There is less hunger, less disease. Our numbers multiply. The villages around Polis are growing quickly.”

Clarke knows this; she’s seen it every time she rides to Polis for the harvest festival. People seem happier. She sees more children in the open, fewer warriors on guard. “We’ve done a lot.”

Lexa nods, letting the tips of her fingers trail through the wheat as she walks. “Enough for two lifetimes,” she says, eyes on her hands.

Clarke stops in the middle of the field and glances over her shoulder. Lexa has stopped as well, but she is no longer surveying the crops or eyeing the treeline. She is staring at Clarke with the wind in her hair, drifting lazily around her face while the sunlight pours golden all around her. “Come on,” she says, fighting past a suddenly dry mouth. 

There is the logging camp past the fields, which they have used sparingly as all Arkers were raised on the lessons of old Earth’s mass deforestation. They replant two for every one they take, and Clarke shows Lexa this as well, the seedlings in their care, the saplings from last year’s planting, how they try to renew wherever they can. Lexa drinks it in, but still doesn’t say much, seemingly content to follow Clarke from place to place.

As they’re leaving the greenhouse, a very small blur dodges past Clarke and runs full tilt into Lexa’s legs, emitting a tiny _oof_ and bouncing to the ground. Lexa looks more startled than anything, her hand halfway to her sword hilt out of reflex. When she realizes the lump on the ground is a child, she kneels down before Clarke can intervene. She pulls the child into a sitting position and looks at her carefully. “Are you hurt?” she asks

The child’s lip quivers, but Lexa’s face is calm, bordering on serious, and she takes her cues from Lexa’s behavior. “No,” she says, swallowing a sniff. Hurt turns to curiosity in a matter of seconds. “Are you the commander?”

“Yes,” Lexa says solemnly. “Who are you?”

“I’m Rafaela,” she says. 

Lexa picks her up by the waist, setting her solidly on her feet, and stands up. “Be more mindful of your surroundings, Rafaela,” she says, not meanly, but teacher to student. 

“Why are you here?” Rafaela asks.

Clarke moves again to interrupt, but Lexa gives Rafaela a weighted, calculating look. “These lands were all once mine, did you know that?”

Rafaela nods her head. “We learned in school. We settled on Trikru land.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow at how easily the trigedasleng falls out of the girl’s mouth. Clarke has made sure all the children in the village grow up learning trigedasleng and everyone, including the adults, is at least halfway to fluent in it. It’s a necessary part of living alongside the Tree People and she won’t have misunderstandings when they could have been prevented with a few lessons. “Yes. And now this is the land of the Skaikru, but it’s nice to come back to something that was once yours and see how it’s doing. And...” She glances at Clarke. “There are people here I consider friends. I want to make sure they are happy. Do you understand?”

Rafaela shrugs in a gesture that could be yes or maybe. “Did you really once cut a man in half?” she asks.

“Okaaayyy,” Clarke drawls, finally speaking up. “That’s enough. Rafaela, does your mom know you’re here?”

“She sent me to get a bag of seeds,” Rafaela says.

“Well hurry up so you don’t keep her waiting,” says Clarke. They watch her dart in and out of the greenhouse, emerging with a packet of seeds clutched in her small fist. 

“Rafaela,” Lexa says. Her face is stern. “The answer to your question is yes. But only because he was a very bad man who did not obey the laws of our land.”

Rafaela’s mouth drops open and she scampers off.

Clarke slaps Lexa on the arm. “Lexa!”

Lexa’s eyes are bright with silent laughter.

“Now she’s probably going to have nightmares,” Clarke says. She starts walking without warning, leaving it to Lexa to catch up with an undignified little jog.

“She asked and I answered. You don’t believe in telling children the truth?”

“I believe in telling them what they’re ready to hear,” Clarke huffs, even though she knows Rafaela was more intrigued than anything. She’ll be sure to tell all her friends about this, how she met the great Commander Lexa and got a gruesome story out of her. Both their reputations have grown into something not quite real, though rooted firmly in both their people’s histories. 

“If it truly displeases you, I will refrain from answering the more...unsavory questions I’m asked,” Lexa says.

“Have you been asked a lot of unsavory questions?”

“The children have been very curious,” Lexa replies, her slightly weary tone implying the rest. 

Clarke laughs and feels better about having Lexa in the village. If it means getting to see Lexa discomfited by children, then she’s content to have her stay a while longer.


	3. Chapter 3

_Then_

The days pass quickly in Polis. Clarke wakes early, eats a light breakfast, then explores. She remembers to bring her sketchbook and begins to assemble a comprehensive pictorial record of daily Trikru life in the city. Oro finds her in the evenings and tells her about her day with Heda, who evidently has a gaggle of young girls learning at her feet. Clarke starts making friends in the palace, especially among the kitchen staff and some of the younger staffers who live in and around the building. One of them is a cartographer and scout, a lithe woman a year older than Clarke who ranges freely and returns home to Polis to commit everything to paper. 

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Clarke asks one afternoon, the two of them watching the boats getting drawn ashore in preparation for the winter. 

Carver shrugs her shoulders, still deeply tan months after the sunny season has faded. Clarke doesn’t know how she can stand to leave her arms bare in this cold. “Heda needs maps.”

“Lexa just sends you out there on your own?”

Carver shifts, still uncomfortable with how Clarke ignores Lexa’s titles. She’s one of those who appreciates that Lexa took what lives she could and left. Clarke has picked up on the general divide–the warriors grumble, denied their chance at vengeance, while the civilians of Polis are just happy to have their family members returned to them. “I am quiet and go easily unnoticed. I like to explore. It’s a good match. And without maps, we are blind.”

When Clarke is done filling in the details on a drawing of a little skiff, she follows Carver down to the stables in the outer ring. Clarke likes the stables; they’re far enough from the city center that the risk of running into Lexa is low, and the horses make her feel calm. Carver taught her how to properly groom a horse and now she helps, grabbing a curry comb for Carver’s small but rangy dappled mount. They work opposite sides of the horse in comfortable silence, which is another thing Clarke appreciates about Carver. She seems mostly unimpressed with Clarke kom Skaikru, Destroyer of the Mountain. They share a mutual interest in drawing and that’s enough for both of them.

There’s a small scuffle of raised voices at the entrance to the stables and when Clarke looks up, there are guards, and between the guards there is Lexa.

Carver is immediately deferential, bowing her head once. “Heda,” she says.

“Carver.” Lexa’s eyes skip over Clarke and to the stall at the end of the stables, where a smart-looking steel gray horse resides. “Bring her,” she tells an attendant, and leaves the stables as quickly as she arrived.

Clarke fumes at being ignored, but can’t fault Lexa for doing what Clarke asked of her. She follows along slowly as the horse is led out, just wanting a glimpse of Lexa. She’s been in Polis nearly two weeks now and they haven’t crossed paths once; all she knows is what Oro and Carver tell her, and the occasional comment from random people throughout the day. Heda said this, Heda did that, Heda has decreed so-and-so. Lexa is fortifying all the border villages in case of Ice Nation incursion and it has a lot of people in Polis tense. Clarke wants to judge the tension for herself, see if Lexa gives anything away.

Lexa stands in the middle of the main thoroughfare connecting the outer and inner gates, surrounded by her guards with a phalanx of warriors milling around behind her. She’s dressed in her usual black, shoulder guard obscured by the silvery pelt around her neck, omnipresent sword dangling by her hip. She cuts a sharp, slim figure against the wintry grey sky. Clarke can’t help but notice that everyone else is exceptionally well armed, even for Grounders. Lexa is blank-faced in the patient way of someone waiting on a task to be completed. Attendants are bringing out lines of horses, saddled and ready for the road.

“Where are they going?” Clarke asks Carver, who has come up behind her. 

Carver shrugs in that laconic way of hers. “I have heard nothing. Heda’s business is her own.”

“Right. Of course,” Clarke mutters. 

Everyone mounts up on Lexa’s cue and then they move out, riding in ordered pairs with guards leading the way. Clarke stares after them until she feels a pain in her hand, and then she realizes she’s gripping the wooden doorframe leading into the stables so hard a splinter is digging into her palm. Surreptitiously, she unclenches her hand, then brings it to her mouth to dig out the splinter with her teeth. 

“I’m sure it’s not serious,” Carver says. “If it was serious Heda would have more warriors with her.”

“Whatever,” Clarke says, still worrying the splinter. 

Carver sighs and grabs Clarke’s wrist, pulling her hand closer. She pulls a knife from the sheath on her belt and before Clarke can wrench away, has the tip delicately cutting at the skin around the splinter. She doesn’t go deep enough to draw blood, just manages to peel back enough to work the wood out, and then she drops Clarke’s hand. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says, staring at her hand, then at Carver. And strangely, Carver blushes. Or Clarke thinks she’s blushing; it’s hard to tell with someone so tan. “I mean, mochof.”

“Pro,” says Carver, sheathing her knife, and they return to grooming her horse.

They groom the other horses too; Clarke has taken to helping in the stables for a few hours every day and Carver stays with her, helping her pick hooves clean and untangle manes and tails. They’re just to Clarke’s favorite, a big dun stallion with gentle eyes and a tendency to nibble at Clarke’s jacket for treats when there’s a commotion outside.

Carver is first out of the stables, running into the street to see the horses of Lexa’s sortie galloping past, dashing for the inner gate, just barely pulling up long enough for the gate to open wide enough to admit them. Clarke is hot on Carver’s heels just in time to see the rest of the sortie flying past. Some of the riders are slung over their saddles, horses guided by another rider clenching their reigns. Other riders are doubled up, holding on to slumped bodies in front of them. Everyone is drenched in blood. Clarke can’t make out who’s who, can’t get a clear look at anyone’s faces in all the chaotic movement. Some of the horses are riderless, attendants clucking and shushing in an attempt to gather them up from milling about in the street. Carver goes to help them, but Clarke dashes after the riders.

“Where are you going?” Carver shouts.

“There’s wounded, I can help,” Clarke yells over her shoulder, and doesn’t stop running. She can still see the tail end of the horses vanishing around a corner and she puts on a burst of speed and cuts sharply to follow them, scattering a few people as she charges along. She finally catches up, finding the horses all bunched up outside of the big brick building they use as a hall of healing, not far from the palace itself. The warriors who can stand are still milling around outside and Clarke has to push through them to get to the doors. 

Inside is hectic, but in a controlled way. She can see someone directing warriors onto the cots lined up perpendicular to the walls. There’s about a dozen warriors, but only half are actually hurt, and their companions are leading them carefully to the cots or, in a few cases, carrying them. She doesn’t realize that she’s searching for a particular face until she finds it, and then she inhales sharply at the sight of Lexa laid out flat on her back. Two healers are looking her over but Clarke strides over anyway, already slipping on the mental facade she’s seen her mother assume hundreds of times. She’s brisk and efficient when she asks the healers, “How is she?”

They glance at her, one of them frowning and opening his mouth to dismiss her, but the other says, “Clarke kom Skaikru.”

It might be the first time she’s glad to hear her name spoken with such deference in Polis. “Tell me,” she says. _Orders_. And they step back, letting her kneel next to Lexa’s cot. 

“It was a blow to the head,” says one of her bodyguards, hovering at the end of her cot, worrying his hands anxiously. “She was struck around here—” He points just behind his right temple. “—when we were ambushed.”

Clarke would give anything for the simplest of tools from the Ark, starting with a light to test Lexa’s pupillary response, but she’s in Polis now. At least she’s used to improvising medical care by now, and she begins by taking Lexa’s pulse at her throat. It thumps strongly under her fingertips, the steady beat of it reassuring. Even though Clarke can see the rise and fall of Lexa’s chest, she lowers her ear to one side of Lexa’s sternum and listens to her breathing. She just wants to be thorough, she tells herself, and pays attention to the tidal sounds of air entering, being expelled, all in a regular and healthy rhythm. 

She continues with a gentle but thorough examination of Lexa’s head, then her neck, making sure to keep it as immobile as possible. She doesn’t want to think about Lexa jouncing around on a galloping horse with a neck injury. “Bring me a candle,” she says. The warrior hurries to obey, coming back with one and handing it to her, assuming she needs more light.

Clarke pulls back Lexa’s eyelids and brings the candle flame as close as she dares. The healers shuffle around, but don’t stop her, letting her focus. The pupil shrinks. Clarke bites her lip in concentration, moving to the other eye; good consensual response. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Okay. So far so good.” She brings the candle closer to the wound site, probing gently with her fingertips. She can feel a lump, but no bleeding, and her skull seems intact. No Battle’s sign behind her ears. Better and better. “How long has she been out?”

The warrior scrunches up his face, an amusing look for someone so big and densely bearded. “We rode as fast as we could. Perhaps an hour, maybe a little less than that. They were very deep in our territory.”

Clarke makes a sound of acknowledgment and continues her exam. Her hands work methodically down Lexa’s body and she doesn’t find any other wounds, even though Lexa is covered in blood. It must belong to other people. She sits back on her heels. “Okay,” she says. She scrubs her hands over her face. “I think that’s all we can do until she wakes up. Is there anything cold for the swelling on her head?”

“I saw ice starting to form on the water,” says the warrior. He darts away to go gather some.

“I’ll stay with her,” Clarke says, not looking at the remaining healers, who have thus far watched her with varying degrees of fascination. She’s seen Grounder first aid and it’s not that rudimentary so she can’t imagine they’re staring out of medical interest. She shifts her weight, standing to her full height. She’s still a full head shorter than both of them. “Go take care of the others. I promise I’ll take care of her.”

One starts to leave, the one who’d said her name, but the other hesitates. “What will you promise, Clarke kom Skaikru?” he demands. “It is known you are angry with Heda. The story of the mountain is well-known to our people. It is told and retold how you despaired when Heda left you.”

“You might have been angry too if your ally left you to _die_ ,” Clarke spits back in his face. “But I’m not going to murder her right in the middle of Polis, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The healer is unrepentant. “Sometimes the best revenge demands patience,” he says. 

“You know what, I don’t need this. She’ll be fine, so I’ll just be going,” says Clarke, brushing past him.

“Clarke.”

She freezes. The healers freeze too. 

Lexa makes a low, pained moan. “Clarke,” she repeats, just above a whisper. Clarke turns around and finds Lexa awake, eyes barely cracked open to slits. “You will not kill me.”

“How do you know,” Clarke responds, trying to draw Lexa further towards consciousness.

“For the same reason I did not ask for your death, after Finn.”

Clarke swallows. “Your suffering is far worse.”

Lexa’s eyes close in an approximation of a nod. She doesn’t seem to have the energy to do anything more, just barely murmuring “If she wishes to stay, let her stay,” before passing out again.

*

_Now_

Before Clarke knows it, she’s spent the entire day with Lexa. The sun is setting and people are gathering in the village’s common areas and good cooking smells are wafting out of many of the houses. 

“I shouldn’t keep you any longer,” says Lexa, lingering at the top of the street that leads to her house. They can hear the low chatter of voices in the air, children laughing, birds singing evening songs in the trees. 

“You haven’t kept me at all,” says Clarke. She likes the way the sun burnishes Lexa the color of flame, the way her eyes stand out from the shadows on her face. They’re not young anymore but Clarke feels young, ignoring her responsibilities to spend the day with a girl. After everything that’s happened between them maybe she should have more complex feelings, but they’ve both survived too much to complicate things that don’t have to be that way. “Come to the main square. There’ll be music, maybe dancing.”

Lexa cocks her head, and Clarke wonders if she’s remembering the same thing from a harvest festival five years ago. Clarke had been loose from the surprisingly good Grounder beer and had joined in the dancing, moving mostly to the beat of the drum while someone accompanied on a flute. She’d spun and found Lexa staring at her from across the fire, sitting up on her throne and half smiling. Clarke had tilted her head, not really expecting Lexa to say yes, and she hadn’t. But she’d lifted her drink just a bit, an acknowledgement that in a different place, a different time, she would have accepted. Clarke felt Lexa’s eyes on her for the rest of the night.

“Come on,” Clarke prods gently. “We can just stay on the edges of the crowd. Nothing too crazy.”

“Nothing too crazy,” Lexa agrees, and follows her through the darkening alleways and streets to the village square. There’s a huge firepit at the center that they use for bonfires, lining up with a sculpture of the ark and the entrance to the council building. The firepit is full tonight, already burning merrily even though there’s still a last wash of sunlight flooding over everyone. Someone has set up barrels of mead, brewed with honey fresh from the apiary they maintain to help with pollination. Clarke draws two mugs and brings them to Lexa, who lingers against the side of the school building where it’s hard to make her out in the shadows in her dark clothes.

Lexa sniffs the mug first, seems to recognize the scent, and drinks deeply. The Grounders will trade for as much mead as they can get, although Clarke knows that some of the brewers have been working out a cultural exchange for access to Grounder brewing methods. “It’s stronger than I remember,” Lexa says, squinting a little at her drink.

Clarke laughs a little and drinks too, enjoying the sweet, sunny taste. 

The sun disappears almost seamlessly, dusk slipping into true night and the bonfire growing bigger and brighter. Someone has brought out a flute and a few drums are going. They’ve also found a fiddle, the result of much trial and error crafting from the village’s only luthier. Possibly the Earth’s only luthier, when Clarke thinks about it. A lively tune gets going and people pair off by the bonfire. Lexa seems fascinated by the fiddle, and Clarke realizes that as new as it is for the Sky People, the Grounders must not have heard it yet. She can see Lexa’s fingers twitching, as though they want to keep time with the music. “Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” Clarke asks.

“I would like...” Lexa downs the rest of her drink. “More mead.” She holds it out to Clarke, who takes it with a good-natured scowl. Lexa smirks back at her. 

Clarke gets a few nods on her way to the barrels, stops here and there to say hello or check on a student. It takes a few minutes to make her way back to Lexa, who remains shrouded in the darkness of the school building, but with her toes just edging up to the light. “Heda,” she says, handing over the mug. 

“Not tonight,” says Lexa. Her fingers close over Clarke’s as she takes her drink. 

Clarke pauses, letting their hands overlap, letting herself feel Lexa’s rough, calloused fingers trace along hers. “You’re always heda.”

A minute nod of agreement from Lexa. Clarke lets go and Lexa pulls her hands back against her body, cradling the mug. Together, they watch the dancers multiply, the music picking up. Clarke can see Monty and his wife out there, a sweet girl who runs a bakery. Bellamy is by the drums and Raven is in conversation with someone on the steps of the council building. It’s still warm enough that the lingering chill on the mead from being stored in a cellar is refreshing. Clarke can feel the alcohol going to her head; she and Lexa ate lightly at dinner, returning to their spot by the river to nibble at roast bird legs and a handful of fruit each. She’s swaying a little to the beat, shoulder bumping against Lexa’s every so often. She glances to her left and can see that Lexa is doing the same.

“Okay,” says Clarke, plucking the drink from Lexa’s hand. 

Lexa’s eyes flash momentarily; Clarke is perhaps the only person who’s ever manhandled her like that and gotten away with it. But she doesn’t try to grab for the mug, instead watching Clarke curiously as she sets both drinks on the ground. 

“Come on,” says Clarke, holding up her arms, one at shoulder and one at waist height. 

“What are you doing?” Lexa asks, looking between the hands and Clarke’s face.

“I’m teaching you to dance,” Clarke says. She wiggles her hands. “Let’s go.”

Lexa glances towards the crowd.

“No one can see us,” Clarke reassures her. She takes a half-step closer. 

Lexa seems to win some sort of inner struggle and meets Clarke halfway, moving between her arms, mirroring her positioning. Clarke moves Lexa’s arms around, moving one up to her shoulder, grasping the other with her left hand. Her right lands lightly on Lexa’s waist. She pushes softly, starting to guide Lexa. “Watch my feet,” Clarke says. 

Lexa nearly bumps foreheads with her looking down, but eventually Clarke gets them moving, feet stepping slowly until Lexa keys to her movement and adjusts to the subtle instructions from the hand on her hip. Clarke pushes forward, and Lexa steps back. Clarke pulls back, and Lexa comes with her. Tiny movements, navigating the narrow space between the schoolhouse and the next building. They step a little faster, catching up to the beat of the music until they’re just about matching the rhythm. 

“Okay, now look up at me,” Clarke says. Lexa does, and they promptly tangle together, stumbling against the side of the schoolhouse. Lexa presses back against the siding, Clarke nearly draped over her as she attempts to regain her balance. She pushes herself up using Lexa’s hip for leverage, letting go with the other hand to brace herself against the building. She pauses, still half-pressed against Lexa, their faces level and so close their noses are almost touching. Lexa’s tongue slips out, slowly wetting her lips, eyes searching Clarke’s face. She’s going to say something, Clarke can tell, and she holds her breath, not wanting to scare Lexa off.

“Try again?” Lexa whispers. She stands up straight from her slouch, arms going into position while she waits for Clarke to do the same.

Clarke is flustered at how disappointed she feels, but covers it well. She clasps Lexa’s hand again, touches her waist. “Eyes on me this time,” she murmurs, and pushes gently. Lexa responds to her touch, letting Clarke guide her, and for a few minutes they glide around in the darkness, catching the occasional flicker of firelight, but isolated enough that Clarke can fool herself into thinking they’re alone. 

The song ends, and Lexa pulls from her grasp. “Do you dance often, Clarke?”

Clarke flexes her hands, missing Lexa already. “Not really. No one to dance with.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Lexa says, mouth quirking so Clarke knows her words for a compliment. 

Something clicks for Clarke. “There’s no one. I mean, no one...permanent.” She watches how Lexa’s face transforms at the words, opening up, looking almost hopeful. “That’s what you’ve been asking me all day, isn’t it?”

Lexa squares her shoulders, chin lifting the way it does when she’s being brave. Clarke saw her do it when rallying her army, and again before a charge into an Ice Nation warrior mob. “Yes,” she says.

They’re left with silence between them, filled in by the lilting drift of music and happy chatter of the crowd.

*

_Then_

Clarke stays with Lexa. They move her into a private room off the main hall and Indra sets up guards at the door. An attendant comes in and washes off the worst of her blood, taking her outer layer of armor too so she’s just in her pants and a fraying undershirt. 

At first Clarke has to stop herself from taking Lexa’s vitals every five minutes, and then as the sun goes down and the night wears on and she grows tired, she wants to leave. She doesn’t leave, though. She is angry, so angry, with Lexa. She can feel it burning hot in her chest right now. But she also can’t bear to leave, so she busies herself checking on the other wounded, although she lets the healers attend to the grim task of making the fatally wounded one comfortable while he breathes his last. 

Carver joins her in the small hours of the morning, silently handing over the sketchbook Clarke left in the stables. She also brings Clarke food and a water skin. 

“Thanks,” Clarke whispers, setting it all on the floor by the end of the bed where she’s perched.

“How is she?” Carver tips her head towards Lexa, who hasn’t moved an inch since she last spoke. 

“I don’t know. I think it’s just a concussion. I think—I hope she’ll be fine.” What Clarke really wants is to take Lexa to the Ark, to use the remnants of their diagnostic machines to see if there’s intracranial hemorrhaging. But the Ark is far away, and Clarke isn’t sure she’s welcome there anymore. They all probably think she’s dead. The notion bothers her more than she thought it would. 

“Heda is very strong,” Carver says. Clarke notices how she stands a respectful distance away, not crowding the bed, barely within arm’s length. 

“Well I’m about to wake her up to check her symptoms.”

“I will go.” Carver starts to leave, but Clarke waves at her.

“She’s just gonna go back to sleep. Keep me company. I’m bored out of my mind.”

So Carver tucks herself into a corner of the room, trying to be unobtrusive, and watches as Clarke uses her knuckles to rub Lexa’s sternum. Clarke presses down just enough for Lexa to feel it, not to hurt, and murmurs her name. “Come on, commander. I need to examine you.”

Lexa comes to gradually, letting out a huge sigh before her eyes open. She focuses silently on Clarke.

“Come on, sit up a bit. I need to see how bad your concussion is. Is your neck stiff?” 

Lexa’s reply is a wince, but she starts pushing herself up onto her forearms, slowly sliding up against her pillows. “Where are the healers?” she asks, sinking back as soon as she’s sitting in a vaguely upright position.

“Busy,” Clarke says shortly. “You’ve got me. Now hold still.” She repeats her test with the candle, clamping down on Lexa’s head when she automatically shies away from the flames. Carver makes a sound from the corner as she twitches in response to a perceived threat, but settles as soon as Clarke proves she means no harm. Clarke goes through the list, taking vital stats, then sitting on the edge of the bed so she can probe around the wound site. Lexa winces, but holds still. 

“What’s your name?” Clarke asks.

Lexa raises an eyebrow.

“Just answer the questions,” Clarke says, bordering on snapping at her. She can feel the banked fire of her anger not far under the surface of her skin, but concern and fear are pushing down on it, smothering it. She wants to go back to the clarity of having one pervasive, overriding feeling towards Lexa, not this jumbled mash of whatever they are invading her senses.

“Lexa kom Trikru,” she says. Her voice sounds tired, as though she can barely stand to use it.

“Where are you?”

“In Polis.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Lexa’s eyes take on an unfocused look for a few moments, and then she blinks. “There was...an attack? We were riding towards the border.” Her eyes start to flicker between Clarke and the door, then to Carver.

“That’s okay. Some memory loss is normal.” Clarke waits until Lexa’s focus is back on her. “Headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was hit in the head, Clarke. My head aches.” She can see Clarke about to snap again, and answers seriously before the rebuke comes. “No dizziness. My stomach is sound.”

“Okay.” Clarke looks Lexa over one more time, wanting to be as thorough as she can while she has her. 

Lexa looks to the corner. “Carver. Have you been reassigned to the healing ward?”

“No, Heda,” Carver says, eyes somewhere around Lexa’s feet.

“She’s helping me,” Clarke says defiantly. “So don’t worry about it. You can go back to sleep now.”

It’s clear Lexa wants to stay awake, but she’s still half-drowsy from being woken up from a dead sleep, and she lets herself slip into unconsciousness without much else but a piercing, weighing look at Carver.

“I should go,” Carver says anyway, pushing away from her corner. 

Clarke knows that she’s deferring to Lexa somehow and it irritates her. She’d thought that maybe she had found a friend of her own, but she’s reminded now that everyone and everything in Polis answers to Lexa. “Okay,” she says, not wanting to make Carver uncomfortable. “See you in the morning?”

Carver nods and takes her leave, and Clarke is left sitting next to Lexa on her narrow bed. She shifts, thinking to get in a few sketches and nibble on the food Carver brought her, but she’s startled by the sound of Lexa’s voice. 

“You may also go, Clarke,” she says, not opening her eyes. 

“Someone has to make sure you don’t die in your sleep,” Clarke says, equal parts sarcasm and sincerity. 

“I have been hit in the head before. I will survive,” Lexa says, sounding assured of her opinion. Clarke wonders just how many times Lexa’s taken a blow to the head and briefly considers joking about it, but doesn’t have it in her heart to make the effort. “Thank you,” Lexa adds, nearly in a whisper.

Clarke just picks at the furs covering Lexa’s body. For a moment it seems as though Lexa has gone back to sleep, but then she speaks again. “Carver is waiting for you. Go.”

“Lexa, you need someone to—”

Lexa turns her head to the side, effectively shutting Clarke out. “Leave.”

Clarke grits her teeth. “Okay. Fine.” She stomps out without a backwards glance.

*

_Now_

By a mutual unspoken decision, they leave the party and walk back to Lexa’s house. The street is dark and empty, lit only by the nearly full moon. It’s enough light for Clarke to see the naked longing in Lexa’s face. She’s never been able to read Lexa this easily and she wonders if it’s their long years finally culminating in a sense of familiarity, or if Lexa has finally let down her walls. 

“Today was a good day,” Clarke says. 

“A very good day,” Lexa agrees, standing in front of her door but making no move to go inside. 

“I haven’t asked because I believe you when you say everything’s fine,” Clarke says suddenly. “But you have to know that it’s making the council wonder. Anything you could say to reassure them...”

Lexa’s jaw works while she considers her words, but instead of answering, she opens the door to her house and walks inside. That she leaves it open, Clarke considers an invitation to follow, so she does. She finds Lexa standing in front of the table where she’s piled her armor and her sword. “I have never been in a position to be away from my people for any period of time. Your people call this a vacation?”

Clarke nods, then realizes Lexa can’t see her with her back turned. “Yes,” she says.

“One of the children explained the word to me. A period of time when you have no responsibilities and everyone is expected to respect your absence.” Lexa’s shoulders shift in a silent sigh. “A strange concept, but not unwelcome.”

She doesn’t seem inclined to say more any time soon, so Clarke prompts her. “You’re in a position to be away now, though?”

Lexa’s head tilts and her fingertips brush along her scabbard. “Yes.” She lifts up her hands, pulls them away from her sword as she turns to face Clarke. “We have peace. Our peoples are prosperous.”

“Lexa.” Clarke’s hand swings forward, just enough to brush Lexa’s and then swing back. For all that they danced earlier, Clarke doesn’t want to scare Lexa off with too much contact. “You don’t have to justify needing a break. You deserve time for yourself.”

“What we deserve and what we allow ourselves are not always the same,” says Lexa. Her hand chases Clarke’s and grips it loosely. “I have denied myself many things since I became commander, always because I believed it was best for my people.”

Clarke’s breath starts to come faster, more shallow. Lexa’s callouses are rough against her own, worn into her skin with a sword instead of a hammer and plough. If Clarke built this village with her sweat and toil, then Lexa built its foundation with her war. Even if she helped give them life after leaving them to death in the mountain out of guilt, she did it. Somehow Clarke doesn’t believe Lexa would make the same choice today. The Sky People and the Tree People have become too intertwined for one to ever safely leave the other, and that’s exactly as Clarke wanted it. Maybe it’s as Lexa wanted it, too. “You’re not denying yourself anymore, though.”

Lexa looks at their hands, their fingers clasped together but not hard enough that Clarke couldn’t pull away if she wanted. “I think...yes. I think I’m finally able to ask for the things I want, instead of always thinking of what my people need first.” She flicks her eyes up to Clarke’s, shadowed in the darkness of her house. Moonlight barely filters through the curtains and it feels like they could be the only two people in the world. 

“What do you want?”

Lexa’s fingers squeeze lightly before slipping through Clarke’s, lacing their fingers together. Her answer is bold in its simplicity. “I have always wanted you, Clarke.” Her eyes flit away. “Even when it was impossible that you would ever want me.”

Still, their hands remain linked, and Clarke uses this tenuous connection to pull herself closer to Lexa. She feels the toes of their boots just barely scraping against each other. “You told me it could never happen,” she says, even though she can feel her body leaning into Lexa, and Lexa’s leaning back. 

“I meant it then.”

“What’s changed now?”

“I have,” Lexa says. Her nose rubs against Clarke’s, then her forehead rests against Clarke’s forehead, and Clarke can feel their breath mingling. “Tell me to leave and I will go. But I won’t be able to return. Not like this.”

“Why not?”

Silence. 

Clarke wants to ask more questions. She wants to know why Lexa suddenly feels she can be away from her people. But more than that she wants Lexa. “Okay,” she says, and pushes forward the bare inch separating them to press a soft kiss into Lexa’s waiting, pliant lips. 

*

_Then_

Carver is nowhere to be found so Clarke goes back to her room in the palace and lies down on her cot and stews. She stews until she realizes she left her sketchbook in Lexa’s room and then she sits up, meaning to go get it back, but she’s still angry at Lexa and doesn’t want to seem like she’s coming back with her tail between her legs. 

There’s hours yet to go until sunrise and yet she’s all keyed up, unable to fall asleep. She takes herself off for a walk, hoping to find anything at all to divert her attention from being mad at Lexa. She was getting good at not thinking about her for a while, despite living in her city. There was just too much to do, too much to learn. 

Polis is quiet at night, totally still except for the movement of the guards. It’s hard to get around without a torch, too, and Clarke has to navigate mostly by memory. The shuttered stalls in the market are too dark, too eerie, and she doesn’t want to go creeping through the neighborhoods like some kind of Skaikru boogeyman. Her feet eventually carry her to the healing hall, exactly the place she meant to avoid, and she lurks in the shadows for a bit, watching the guards outside of the building. She considers sneaking in; Lexa will most likely be asleep. She could grab her things and go with no one the wiser. The guards won’t make a fuss. 

She psychs herself up like this for another minute before adjusting her jacket and walking confidently towards the hall, as though she’s meant to be doing exactly what she’s doing. As predicted, the guards only give her a cursory glance. Clarke kom Skaikru comes and goes as she pleases in Polis, it is widely known, and besides which she was in with heda earlier so there’s no reason for her not to return now.

Clarke keeps walking, past the rows of cots, all the way to the back where Lexa’s private room is off the main hall. There’s a wobble at the curtained doorway, half a misstep, and then she’s slowly pulling the curtain aside to peek in and make sure Lexa is still asleep.

The mound of blankets on the bed isn’t moving. Clarke panics. She’d left clear instructions with the healers to wake Lexa up every few hours but no one is sitting with her. She could have started hemorrhaging in her sleep. She could already be dead. Clarke rushes into the room, hands reaching for the blankets, pulling them down to find the pulse at Lexa’s neck. 

Lexa is warm and her pulse throbs readily with life, sending Clarke leaning against the wall in relief. She’s pushing off it again an instant later, looking for her sketchbook, worrying that maybe one of the healers or servants took it.

“You will not find it there,” says Lexa, and Clarke jumps. 

“Stop doing that!” says Clarke, whirling and finding Lexa still prone, but with her eyes open. 

“Doing what?”

“Being...not asleep. Just...” Clarke makes a disgusted sound. 

“I apologize.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” She runs her fingers through her hair, feeling grimy and disheveled after a long day in the stables and then an even longer evening in the healer’s hall. “I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

“Were you not looking for this?” Lexa asks. Her hand shifts the covers, revealing Clarke’s notebook.

Clarke clenches her jaw and snatches it off the bed, holding it to her stomach. “This was private. You had no right—”

“I did not read it,” Lexa says flatly.

Clarke pauses, trying to rearrange her thought processes mid-rant. “Oh.”

“The healer assumed it was mine and put it in the bed.”

Clarke relaxes her grip on the notebook a little, but still clutches it protectively. 

“Good night, Clarke.” Lexa closes her eyes again, and Clarke has finally had enough. _She_ doesn’t want to see Lexa, not the other way around. Lexa has no right to dismiss her, to tell her when she can stay or not. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Clarke asks. 

“Doing what?” Lexa asks with her eyes closed. 

“You keep telling me to leave. You act like I’m not here.”

“I am respecting your wishes, Clarke. You asked not to see me.” Lexa suddenly sounds exhausted. Not tired from her injury, but a weary, bone-deep, drained-to-the-bottom kind of exhaustion. 

“That’s my choice though. You don’t tell me what I get to choose. If I choose to come see you, then I will. I don’t come and go on your terms because that’s not what this is about.” Clarke can feel her temper rising and struggles to stay on an even keel, to keep her voice low enough that the guards outside won’t hear.

Lexa opens her eyes again and finds Clarke, meeting her gaze steadily. “What is it about?”

“It’s about...” Clarke can’t pick just one word out of all the words bubbling up in her throat, filling up her mouth. “It’s...” Her whole body seems to scrunch up, trying to communicate how she’s been feeling. The days and weeks way from all her friends and family, immersing herself so suddenly in a foreign culture, trying to work through the guilt, at the same time regarded as a savior for the thing she hates most about herself. The fear that she might be learning to accept the hateful part. 

“I left you,” Lexa says, cutting through the haze. Clark goes still. “I still do not regret it. I will not apologize for it. But it hurt you, and that is my burden to accept. You did what was necessary because I left you. Clarke, if you blame me, then I also accept that, because your blame is not misplaced. Stop punishing yourself for doing something your people needed you to do. Or if you cannot, then accept that you can no longer be the leader they need. But either way you should have peace.” Her mouth tightens by the end, as though speaking so much physically pains her.

“Don’t tell me I should...” Clarke struggles not to let her emotions show, lip twitching, eyes filling with tears. Her body betrays her, blinking and spilling tears down her face. “I can’t.”

“You will.”

Clarke can feel tears dripping off her chin but she can’t stop them. “How?”

“Because you can’t do anything else.”

“You took _everything_ from me,” says Clarke, voice cracking apart. 

Lexa watches her, not disagreeing. 

“And the worst thing is, I’m...I’m dealing with it. I thought maybe after a while I would figure out how to deal with how I’m feeling. I haven’t, but the feeling is...” She motions in front of her chest, trying to mime to Lexa what’s been happening to her. “It’s fading. Getting easier to have inside of me. And that scares me. If this just goes away on its own—”

“It won’t. It never will,” says Lexa. She squirms, pushes herself up, back propped against the wall. “I have made compromises since I took command. Some of them were harder choices than others. Some of them cost many lives. You know me, Clarke, whether I want you to or not.” For the first time her gaze shifts away, somewhere to the side. “I feel for every life lost. But I cannot let that stop me from being who I am. My people need me to be who I am.”

Clarke dashes her tears away with one hand, wipes it clumsily on her jacket. “What if that’s all you are? Who your people need. And who you really are just gets lost and you’re just a...symbol.”

“That is the price of leadership,” Lexa says calmly. 

Clarke takes a deep breath through her mouth. She feels oddly cleansed, even though her face is a streaked mess and there are tearspots down her front. She realizes that this is the first time she’s cried since she left Camp Jaha. “I might as well check you while I’m here,” she says, a bit rough, but sincere.

“I’m fine, Clarke.”

Clarke puts her notebook down by Lexa’s legs and reaches for her wrist anyway. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she says, counting beats in her head. She holds Lexa’s wrist longer than she needs to, but neither of them makes a move away from the other. “Nausea? Headache?”

“No,” Lexa says, seeming resigned to this treatment. She watches with interest as Clarke gets up to fetch a candle and patiently holds her head still so Clarke can check her pupils, then sits still through the rest of her exam. 

“I’ll wake you up again in a few hours,” Clarke says, and this time Lexa simply slides down under the covers instead of protesting. Clarke gets up and gathers her notebook, then heads for the chair in the corner and settles down to await the dawn.

*

_Now_

It’s almost exactly like their first kiss: slow, soft, full of promise. Clarke’s hands go around Lexa’s waist, feeling her slim curves, then the smooth planes of muscle in her lower back. Lexa cups her face with one hand and parts her lips with a little sigh, as though she can’t hold it in a moment longer. Clarke pulls herself closer, feels Lexa back up against the table, keeps pulling until they’re nearly flush together. She kisses Lexa softly, but with growing urgency. The tip of her tongue licks once, delicately, and Lexa opens up her mouth for Clarke, taking her in, licking back in strong, slow strokes. 

A buzz starts in Clarke’s stomach and shoots straight between her legs when Lexa tilts her head to kiss Clarke’s throat, teeth scraping lightly before her tongue follows. Her hands slip under the loose hem of Lexa’s shirt, sliding up her spine, digging into soft skin with her fingertips. She finds Lexa’s mouth again, sucks on her lower lip until Lexa makes a small, desperate noise. A thigh slips between her legs and Lexa pulls her even closer, kisses her deeper, one hand buried in Clarke’s hair and the other sliding down to her ass. 

Clarke leans into Lexa as slowly as she can, feeling Lexa’s thigh tense under her. It’s been so long since she’s let anyone touch her and Lexa’s hands are so strong and assured that she can’t stand not to feel bare skin on bare skin. She pushes her hands up higher, until Lexa’s shirt bunches enough for her to understand Clarke’s intentions. She lifts her arms so Clarke can pull off her shirt, then returns the favor, tossing Clarke’s light cotton tee somewhere on the floor. Clarke runs her hands up Lexa’s stomach until her fingers hit the edges of her bra, soft leather with eyelets for laces. She tugs impatiently at it, trying to figure out how it’s tied. She thinks Lexa might be amused, but it’s hard to tell in the dark; in any case, Clarke feels her hands come up to stop Clarke’s tugging, then move slowly, precisely, unwrapping herself for Clarke bit by bit. 

The bra falls back onto the table. Clarke swallows, then remembers herself and snaps off her bra to send it the way of her shirt. Her hands land on Lexa’s ribs, smoothing over the skin, brushing over a faint scar, then sliding up to touch Lexa’s breasts. Lexa makes a stifled noise, holding her breath, trying not to move so much under Clarke’s touch. But Clarke squeezes once, lets her thumbs ghost over Lexa’s nipples, and feels them tighten instantly in response. She pushes against Lexa again, nearly moaning with relief at the feeling of their breasts pressed together, hands roaming over warm skin, lips and tongues connecting wetly. 

Both of Lexa’s hands dip under Clarke’s waistband, clutching tightly until their hips are fused together. Clarke rocks against Lexa’s thigh, rocks again, lightheaded at the pleasure. She doesn’t stop kissing Lexa for a second and they end up panting for breath, but still she doesn’t stop and neither does Lexa. 

Suddenly Clarke is pushed back. Her night-adjusted vision can just about make out Lexa’s face, eyes wide and wondering. Lexa grabs her hand and tugs, leading her to the bedroom. Clarke goes eagerly, aching for more. Lexa stops in front of her simple bed. She bends down to pull off her boots, then reaches for the buttons on her pants and pulls them loose one by one, not taking her eyes off of Clarke. Clarke toes off her boots, then pulls off her pants. Lexa pulls the laces on her underwear. The sound of leather sliding through metal eyelets mixes with their heavy breathing. Clarke drops her underwear too and Lexa sinks onto the mattress, hands going around Clarke’s waist, face tipped up to stare at her. It’s even darker in the bedroom with the window facing away from the moonrise, but Clarke doesn’t need to see Lexa, she just needs to feel those rough hands grasping at her, Lexa’s hot mouth pressing wet kisses to her stomach, teeth nipping at her here and there. She tangles both hands in Lexa’s hair, snagging on her braids and not caring. 

When Lexa’s teeth scrape over her hipbone Clarke shivers. She tugs on Lexa’s head to get her attention, pushes her by the shoulders until Lexa gets the message and scoots back with Clarke climbing on top of her with her knees resting on either side of Lexa’s thighs. She reaches down, Lexa tilts her head up, and they kiss, Clarke rocking in Lexa’s lap while Lexa steadily massages her hands along Clarke’s thighs. Lexa runs a single finger between Clarke’s legs and she bucks forward, exhaling messily into Lexa’s mouth. Lexa does it again and again, running her finger a little deeper each time until she finally circles Clarke’s clit. Clarke can’t keep up with the rhythm of their kissing anymore, instead throwing her head back while Lexa rubs her, clutching hard at Lexa’s shoulders for support. Pleasure builds up at her core, suffusing her body, tracing up her spine. And then Lexa slides her fingers inside Clarke, two at once because Clarke is so wet. Clarke gasps, almost doubling over from the sensation. Lexa places a steadying hand at the small of her back and keeps going, pushing in and out of Clarke in time with the thrusting of Clarke’s hips until Clarke is riding her hand and clenching down on her fingers and whimpering out her release. 

She sinks into Lexa’s lap, only half aware of Lexa pulling out of her and holding her close, forehead tucked into Clarke’s neck. Her mouth is dry from panting and she swallows heavily before pressing small, warm kisses down the side of Lexa’s face until she finds her mouth again. She keeps it light, still sensitive in the aftermath of her orgasm. Lexa accepts what she gives and doesn’t push for more until Clarke’s kisses grow longer, rougher. She pushes against Lexa, encountering almost no resistance, and gets Lexa to lie down. Clarke lowers herself slowly, letting their bodies meld from the hips up, enjoying the sensation of Lexa arching up into her. She kisses Lexa’s neck, licking up to her jawline, then sucks on her earlobe. Lexa arches again as Clarke breathes hotly into her ear. 

“Clarke,” she says. “Please.”

Clarke lowers her head and bites down on Lexa’s nipple, just hard enough to sting. She sucks, bites, alternates back and forth until she can feel Lexa nearly shaking with need, and then she scoots down even farther. Lexa spreads her legs wide without any urging. Her hands clutch at the covers as soon as Clarke licks up her cunt to her clit, hips bucking into Clarke’s mouth until Clarke pins them down with her hands. She licks Lexa’s clit in broad strokes until she feels Lexa straining to come, then slows down. Lexa’s bottom sinks down into the mattress and she makes an impatient huffing sound. Clarke almost laughs, but manages not to at the last moment, and speeds up again. This time she carries Lexa over the brink, not stopping when Lexa’s thighs clench hard. Lexa makes a high-pitched whine in the back of her throat when Clarke’s licking turns to sucking and then she’s coming hard in Clarke’s mouth. Clarke keeps going until Lexa clutches at her head, forcing some distance. She rests her cheek on Lexa’s thigh, listening to her breathe hard, feeling her body slowly unwind. 

Eventually she pushes her way back up, just far enough to collapse half on top of Lexa with their heads a few inches apart on the same pillow. Lexa traces a hand up and down her spine in lazy, drifting lines. 

“Is it okay if I stay?” Clarke asks, even though she’s already half asleep. 

“Yes,” Lexa says. “If that’s what you want.”

“Go to sleep,” Clarke says. She thinks she can hear Lexa whispering something to her just as she drifts off but doesn’t have the energy or the desire to decipher it. She doesn’t respond and lets herself sink into a deep and dreamless slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

_Then_

Lexa heals quickly. Clarke frets anyway because it was a blow to the head in a relatively fragile part of the skull, but gradually she relaxes the more Lexa improves. When Lexa leaves the healer’s hall a scant two days after they brought her in, Clarke stops hovering and returns to hanging around the city with Carver.

Four days after Lexa’s injury, Carver storms into the stables with a face like thunder. Clarke is waiting there for her, already grooming one of the sleek messenger horses. She pauses in the middle of picking burrs out of the horse’s tail. “Is something wrong?”

“Heda no longer trusts me,” Carver says, grabbing a brush and working her horse’s coat with short, rough strokes. Her horse whinnies uncomfortably and she slows down, patting his neck in apology. 

“Did she say something to you?” Clarke remembers how Lexa watched Carver so carefully when she woke up; the beginnings of a theory niggle at the back of her brain. 

“No. She is sending Colmar to scout the border.” Carver looks like she would crush the curry comb in with her bare hands if she could.

“Um.” 

Carver resumes her brushing, more controlled now, but still not her usual calm, practiced strokes. “Colmar is a fool who will die in the first Ice Nation ambush he wanders into. I should be going, not him.”

“You _want_ to go scout the border?” Clarke asks, incredulous.

“I am the best at it,” Carver says fiercely. “Heda has always trusted me to do my duty, but no longer.”

“Did she tell you why?”

Carver shakes her head, jaw clenching, and keeps grooming her horse. 

“Do you...” Clarke hesitates, because she’s not sure she and Carver are quite the kind of friends to be doing each other huge favors. She’s also unsure of how Grounders look at favors; she might be mortally insulting Carver to offer, but in the end she wants Carver to know how much she’s appreciated having a friend in Polis. “I could ask Lexa for you. At least find out why she didn’t send you instead of Colmar.”

“I cannot ask you to do that, Clarke,” says Carver. She rests her hands on her horse’s back, taking a moment to calm down. “Heda has said I will stay here. So I will stay here.”

Clarke nods, but the idea lingers and when dinner rolls around and she finds Oro in the dining hall, she asks, “Where does Lexa eat dinner?”

Oro cocks her head at Clarke in confusion. “Why do you want to know?”

“Am I not allowed to know?”Clarke asks back, wondering why Oro had to pick now of all times to stop enthusiastically answering her questions.

“Heda dines alone in her quarters,” Oro says, still frowning. She slowly scoops a few vegetables into her mouth, as though still contemplating Clarke’s sudden interest in knowing Lexa’s whereabouts.

The next question, then, is where are Heda’s quarters, but that would be far too obvious, so Clarke finishes her dinner in a hurry and then starts wandering the building, trying to go in the direction where she thinks the nicest quarters ought to be. She knows she’s in the right area when she starts encountering guards more regularly; none of them stop her, though they do watch her carefully. She hasn’t really pushed the boundaries of her freedom inside the palace itself but it seems as though Lexa’s orders to leave her alone stand here as well. She keeps going, deeper into the palace, slightly unsure of where she is in relation to her own room, but definitely aware that this part is much nicer than hers. Torches have stained the walls and ceilings with soot, but the floor is clean marble and it looks as though there’s been regular effort over the decades to maintain these halls. 

Eventually she comes to a large set of double doors with guards posted outside of it. Despite the laxness of the others in allowing her this far, these guards close ranks and stop her from going through the door. “What is your business here?” one asks in accented English.

“Tell Lexa I need to see her,” says Clarke. She tries to make her face less scowly and adds, “Please.”

The one who spoke jerks his head at the other one, who opens a narrow gap in the doors to slide through so that Clarke can’t see what’s inside. He’s gone for long minutes, so long that Clarke begins to think that Lexa isn’t here and the guards are just messing with her. But then he returns, tapping the other guard on the shoulder and giving a nod of consent. Clarke steps around him and pulls open the right door, relieved when the guards don’t follow her. 

Lexa is at a small table to one side of the room, a plate of scraps and a few candles in front of her. Her table is bracketed by large bookshelves, crammed full of books from top to bottom. The center of the room holds a much larger table covered in papers and more books. A set of doors behind the table lead to a shallow balcony overlooking the water. The other side of the room is dominated by a large bed piled with furs, an armor stand currently displaying Lexa’s overcoat and shoulder guard, a low rectangular brazier filled with glowing charcoal, and a plain wooden wardrobe that Clarke assumes holds clothes. Possibly weapons. It’s impossible to tell with Grounders. “Clarke,” Lexa says by way of greeting. Candlelight flickers over her stoic features, painting her in warm colors.

“How’s your...” Clarke points to her own head.

“I am almost fully recovered. Did you require something?”

“Yes.” Clarke draws herself up minutely, if only to give herself the nerve to ask. “It’s about Carver.”

In anyone else she might have mistaken it for a trick of the light, but Clarke can see Lexa’s mouth twitch. “Yes?”

“Why didn’t you send her on the scouting mission?”

Lexa frowns at her much the same way Oro did at dinner, and for a moment Clarke wonders if Oro has picked it up from her over the long hours of lessons. Once she might have found the idea of a gaggle of mini-Lexas humorous. “You would rather she goes?”

“I think Carver would rather she goes. She implied that Colmar isn’t exactly...as proficient as her.”

“I know my people’s abilities,” Lexa says stiffly. 

“You’re not keeping Carver in Polis for me, are you?” Clarke blurts out.

Lexa somehow manages to stiffen even more. “Favoritism is a short path to chaos,” she says.

“Okay, but if Carver is the best person for the job, she should go.”

“You think very highly of yourself,” Lexa says drily. She starts picking at her food, the remnants of some kind of game bird and a bread crust. 

“Like you said, Lexa, I know you. And I know you wouldn’t just randomly take Carver off scout duty if she’s really the best, and from what she tells me, she is.”

“You and Carver are friends. Enjoy your time with her instead of worrying about her,” Lexa says. She turns her whole attention to her plate, as if to dismiss Clarke, which only sends her hackles up.

“At least tell me why you sent Colmar instead? You must have a good reason. You’re always deciding with your head, not your heart,” Clarke reminds her. 

Lexa’s face turns stony. “I have given you the space you asked for, Clarke. Do not presume that means you may intrude on mine whenever you wish.”

Clarke walks a few steps closer. “It’s just a question, Lexa. Why Colmar instead of Carver? You owe me, kind of for the rest of our lives, but don’t make stupid decisions because of me.”

Clarke jumps when Lexa slams her fist on the table, just hard enough to rattle her dish. The sudden burst of sound is in vivid contrast to her blank, passionless face. “Colmar is going because he is expendable and Carver is not. Our border with the Ice Nation has become porous of late. If he returns, I will have actionable intelligence. If he does not, which is likely, then that also tells me some of what I must know. If we truly are on the brink of war, I must save Carver for battles with higher stakes.” Her jaw works once, twice, and still she avoids looking at Clarke. “Does that satisfy you, Clarke? Am I sufficiently clearheaded for you?”

“As clear as you ever were,” Clarke says coldly. But she doesn’t leave just yet. “You know—”

Lexa winces.

Clarke knows that wince. “Is your head hurting?”

“No,” Lexa says.

“Goddammit, Lexa.” Clarke closes the distance between them and manhandles her into stillness so she can examine the wound site again. The lump is much reduced, barely noticeable under Lexa’s hair. Her vitals are steady and Lexa knows to remain still when Clarke picks up a candle for the pupil test. 

“Why do you do that?” Lexa asks, blinking rapidly at the spots in her eyes. 

“This?” Clarke says, putting down the candle. “It’s a brain function test, basically. If your pupils dilate the right way, I can tell if you have brain damage.”

“You should teach this to our healers.”

“Uh huh. Now answer me honestly: any headaches or nausea?” She can see Lexa considering a lie and makes a warning face. 

“Headaches. They come and go,” Lexa says reluctantly. 

“Trouble sleeping? Fatigue?”

“Some. I have less energy than usual. My strength is returning with each day, though.”

“Memory problems? Trouble focusing?”

“Only when I have a headache.” Lexa looks at the books on the center table. “And my lieutenants would tell me if I were losing focus.”

“Okay. So you’re back on bed rest,” Clarke says. She keeps talking over the sounds of Lexa’s protest. “And you’re cutting back on your reading. It looks like you do a lot of it and the strain is probably hurting you. It gets worse when you read for too long, doesn’t it?”

Lexa’s mutinous little pout is answer enough.

“You’re pushing too hard, Lexa. You need to rest until all your symptoms completely abate.” Clarke gestures towards the bed.

“I do not have that luxury,” says Lexa, unmoving. “War is nearly upon us, Clarke. I must plan and entreat my allies to help us defeat the Ice Nation.”

“You can rest now and go into this war at a hundred percent, or you can keep pushing and probably pass out in the middle of doing something really important. It’s your choice.” Clarke folds her arms, making it clear she’s not going anywhere either. 

Lexa leans back a little in her chair, the rigidity going out of her shoulders. “I will return to bed after dinner. Is this satisfactory?”

“It would be if I believed you for a second,” Clarke says without thinking. Awkward silence suddenly springs up between them, Clarke wishing she could take it back. It surprises her how much she wishes she hadn’t said it; her anger, just like everything else from the mountain, has lost its sharp edge. She’s carried it around long enough to start learning how to hold it safely, wearing it down until it’s dull and smooth and perhaps ready to be stored away. 

“I will rest, Clarke,” Lexa says, breaking the pause.

“Okay.” Clarke wishes her jacket had pockets for something to do with her hands. “I’m...sorry I barged in here. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” She takes the last of the awkwardness with her as she starts to walk out, but at the door she pauses as a question occurs to her. “You’re not eating in here to avoid me, are you?”

Clarke half expects her to take offense again. “I prefer to eat alone when I can,” Lexa says instead. “And I like to let my warriors relax among themselves without worrying about being watched by their commander.”

“I get that,” Clarke says. Still she lingers by the door. Their conversation feels oddly unfinished. “It doesn’t get lonely, eating by yourself?”

“I enjoy my privacy.”

“Yeah,” Clarke mutters. “I get that too.” 

“Oro tells me she has been eating dinner with you. If she bothers you, I will tell her to find companionship with the other girls,” says Lexa.

“No, it’s fine. I like her.” She can’t think of anything else to say, even though she feels like she has more. Lexa is watching her with no small amount of interest and she’s caught between just leaving and finding a reason to stay. 

“You may tell Carver why I require her to remain in Polis,” Lexa says, as though giving her permission to leave. 

“I will, when I see her.” Now she really is lingering, so she starts to open the door, only to hear Lexa call her name. “Yes?” she asks, turning and letting the door close.

“Thank you,” Lexa says. She seems to be struggling to find the right words. “For looking after me when you are not obligated.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Lexa,” Clarke says, and means it. In her darker hours in the woods she’d contemplated revenge, ways to make Lexa feel half as stricken, alone, abandoned. She knows now that Lexa did feel those things and she would be lying if she wasn’t at least a little satisfied, but mostly she wants it all behind her. She’s stopped wallowing in the past so much and is firmly in the present, with the future not far off. And the future requires that someday she start moving forward again. That doesn’t mean she wants Lexa to know that, though, so she adds, “If the Ice Nation defeats you, my people are next.”

“I won’t let it come to that,” Lexa says grimly.

“I know,” says Clarke. Understanding passes between them on an invisible current, a mutual appreciation. Now the conversation is over. Clarke smiles at her—it’s as grim as Lexa’s tone, quick and tight, but it’s a smile nonetheless—and finally leaves, feeling like she managed to accomplish something with her day bigger than just grooming horses.

*

_Now_

Clarke wakes when the sun has already been up for a few hours. She feels too warm, almost sweating under the covers. She rolls over with a little sound of discomfort and finds Lexa lying on her side, watching her. “Morning,” Clarke says, voice rough with sleep. She pushes the covers down to get some air and closes her eyes, intending to doze for a few more minutes. She peeks out of one eye; Lexa is still watching her. “Go back to sleep,” she says grumpily.

“You have been sleeping for a very long time,” Lexa says.

Clarke grunts and tries to relax back into the dream she was having before she woke up. For a while it seems like she might make it, but then she feels Lexa shift through the mattress. She groans and opens her eyes again, this time for real. “Seriously? It’s a vacation. You’re supposed to sleep late.”

“Are you also on vacation?” Lexa asks.

Clarke gasps. “Oh no, my class.” She sits up, casting about for her clothes and realizing that they’re mostly in a trail from the bedroom to the outer room. 

For her part, Lexa merely watches, propped against the wall with the covers up to her chest. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?” Clarke asks, hopping in an entirely undignified way to pull on her pants while also reaching for her boots.

Lexa shrugs. She seems quieter than usual, content to watch Clarke in silence.

Clarke peeks behind the curtain to judge the sun’s position and swears loudly. She continues rushing, pulling on her bra and shirt in the outer room, then back into the bedroom to see if she left anything. “I’ll see you after class?” she asks, pulling her hair free of her collar.

“Yes.”

Clarke finally slows down long enough to bend over and kiss Lexa once, very softly. She leans their foreheads together. “See you later,” she says with her eyes closed, and adds a quick peck for good measure. Then she runs for it, only bringing her pace back down to a brisk walk once she’s a block from the school building. She hastily rearranges her hair and straightens her clothes before walking into her classroom, hoping that no one will notice she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The little wind up clock on her desk says that she’s only a few minutes late, but she’s not often late for class, and her students watch her with keen curiosity as she walks to the chalkboard. “Morning everyone,” she says, starting to outline a continuation of their lessons on the respiratory system.

She can tell they’re all dying to ask questions but she powers through the lesson despite echoes of the night before doing their best to surface. She stutters over an explanation about different methods of clearing the airway, remembering how she gasped and panted into Lexa’s mouth. She stutters again as time winds down and she thinks of Lexa waiting for her, probably leaning in the building’s shadow with cool nonchalance. 

But after she does her best not to hurry out ahead of her students and forces herself to clean the chalkboard first and walk at a normal pace, Lexa is nowhere near the school building. Clarke frowns, looking down the street for her in both directions, then starting to walk in the direction of Lexa’s house. It’s only a minute later that Lexa comes into view a block away, surrounded by small children. She’s down on her haunches, hands hanging over her knees, face to face with Rafaela, but as soon as she spots Clarke she shoots up to her full height. The children make whining noises but she ignores them, eyes locking with Clarke’s like two magnets clicking together.

“Go find your parents, guys,” says Clarke, walking up. Lexa is in a rugged dark green shirt today, the slightly uneven neckline baring a hint of collarbone, and her hair only has a few braids in it, the rest of it allowed to tumble loose in waves. She has a dark sack at her feet that she hefts over her shoulder without explanation.

The kids whine, but Lexa quells them with a stern glance. “Respect for your elders is a cornerstone of a functioning society.”

Clarke is pretty sure the kids don’t understand all of it, but they understand Lexa’s tone. Whether with oversize Trikru warriors or tiny children, command is instinctual and ingrained in her. The kids trudge off. “Sorry about them,” she says once they’re out of earshot.

“They are not a bother,” Lexa replies. Clarke thinks she catches something like longing in the way Lexa looks after Rafaela. 

Clarke turns towards the marketplace and Lexa catches her intention. As they make their way over, Clarke keeps sneaking glances at Lexa’s profile, except for the times when Lexa sneaks glances right back, and they meet eyes and smile shyly at each other. Well, Clarke smiles shyly. Lexa’s mouth turns pleasant, ticking up at one corner in something small and private just for Clarke, before smoothing out into something undefinable.

Lexa guides them to a stall serving simmered meat in a pocket of thick bread and thunks her sack down on the counter, opening it and pulling out a selection of freshly killed rabbits and a pouch of fragrant herbs. The woman nods approvingly at the rabbits and hands over two bread pockets stuffed to overflowing. The whole transaction takes less than a minute and as they walk away, Clarke barely registering the heavy brick of food in her hand, she asks, “What just happened?”

“I have worked out a bargain with Amira to bring her game in exchange for lunch,” says Lexa, biting deeply into her food. 

“I can have the dispensary start issuing you your own rations—”

“I prefer to provide for myself,” Lexa says mildly. “I do not want to take from your people.”

“We have more than enough. Come on, it’s a vacation. You’re not supposed to do any work.” Clarke nudges Lexa shoulder to shoulder.

“I find hunting relaxing. And I rarely get to do it alone these days,” Lexa says.

Clarke lets it go; Lexa’s greatest luxury has always been her privacy. By some unspoken agreement they end up at their spot by the river and there they sit in the grass and eat, Clarke trying not to drip juice all over her fingers and failing. Lexa gets a few drips too, and they walk down to the edge of the river to wash off their hands. Clarke lies back on the grassy bank, stretching in contentment with a full belly and a tree shading her eyes from the midday sun. Lexa lies back too and they enjoy their idyll, fingers brushing occasionally, feet tapping together. 

“How would you feel if I stayed for a long while, Clarke?” Lexa asks, her finger tracing vague patterns across Clarke’s palm.

“How long a while?” 

Lexa’s finger pauses, then resumes its tracing. “A month, at least. Perhaps longer.”

Clarke sits up, looking down at Lexa’s sunlight-dappled face. “That’s a long time to be away from your people.”

Lexa’s eyes search her face, then flick away. “I have left a provisional government in place. I will also journey back to Polis from time to time. But I would like to live here, in Nova, for the foreseeable future, if this is acceptable.”

Clarke can’t find the words for her reaction. Something is terribly wrong. Lexa would never up and leave her people for such a long time. A vacation, that Clarke could make herself believe after so many years of peace. But this is beyond a vacation; this is tantamount to Lexa relinquishing her title and her control. “Lexa, what’s going on? Is everything okay in Polis? There hasn’t been an insurrection or something has there? Are—”

Lexa squeezes her hand. “No, nothing like that.” She stares at Clarke again, then sits up with the kind of sigh that can only herald an unpleasant confession. 

“What is it then?”

Lexa’s staring takes on a hard, focused quality, like she’s memorizing the lines of Clarke’s face. “I’m afraid.”

Clarke stills the urge to reach for Lexa’s hand. “Afraid of what?”

Lexa tilts her chin up. “I’m afraid because I have betrayed you again, Clarke.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Then_

There’s a buzz in the air in Polis, and Clarke doesn’t entirely like it. It’s different from the gossip that seems to run through the city like a current; this is nervous, whispered from ear to ear in hushed tones lest saying it out loud invoke misfortune. Colmar the scout returned with a grave wound and gasped out his report before dying: the Ice Nation is gathering at the border.

Carver is somewhat encouraged by the report that Lexa is saving her for the war to come, but otherwise melancholic at the prospect of battle. “Since Heda formed the Coalition, we have prospered. It will be difficult to lose that,” she says while they eat lunch by a brazier in the stable yard. 

Warriors move through the city daily and the sounds of hammers ring day and night in the blacksmiths’ quarter. Civilians are starting to move towards the city as well, finding shelter within its thick walls. Clarke finds herself worrying with increasing intensity, wondering what war will mean for the Tree People and Sky People alike. After lunch she asks Carver to show her a map of the area so she can plot out where Camp Jaha is, then asks for the proper way to request an audience with Lexa.

Carver is bemused. “I was under the impression you could see Heda whenever you liked.”

Clarke shrugs. “Probably, but if I’m going to ask for her help, I guess I should try to be polite about it first.”

Carver doesn’t seem to believe her, but holds her hand out for the map. She rolls it up carefully and stands up from their small table in Carver’s house. “Come. I will take this to Heda myself.”

Clarke follows her to the palace, Carver leading with the assuredness of long familiarity. She has Clarke wait at the end of a long corridor leading to Lexa’s war room. Clarke tries to be patient, but ends up pacing back and forth in the hallway, ignoring the guards and trying not to count off the seconds in her head.

Carver comes back about five minutes later, cheeks flaming red, map clutched so hard in her fist that it’s covered in crinkles. 

“What happened?” Clarke asks, alarmed.

Carver shakes her head. “Heda will see you.” She thrusts the map at Clarke, shaking her head even more when Clarke tries to ask her another question. “I will wait here.” And she takes up position, standing nearly at attention.

Clarke frowns and starts making her way down the hall, not certain she’ll like what she finds. She pushes into the war room, curiosity warring with apprehension at just how discomfited Carver was after talking to Lexa. 

The war room itself is large, nearly three times the size of Lexa’s bedroom. A large, long table takes up the center of the room, surrounded by chairs, with one larger chair at its head. Most of the table is dominated by scale models of Trikru territory, with little movable units scattered across it, surrounded by the usual stacks of paper Clarke’s come to expect when Lexa is planning something. Lexa stands off to one side at a table that holds a pitcher and a platter of pewter cups, dressed in full regalia. She drinks long and deep of her water. “You asked to see me?”

“I need to know what you think the Ice Nation’s invasion route looks like,” Clarke says. “I want to make sure it won’t hit Camp Jaha. If it does, I need to warn them to move.”

“I am meeting their army close to the border. If all goes well, they will never be close enough to Camp Jaha to threaten it,” Lexa says.

“I still need to warn them,” Clarke says. “And maybe they can help.”

Lexa puts down her cup with deliberate precision. “Why would they help us after we left them at the mountain?”

Clarke tries not to tighten her fist around the map lest the sound give her away. “From everything I’ve heard about the Ice Nation, they’re not the kind of people I want in charge of this land. Even if my people hate you, they know you. You can be reasoned with. The Ice Nation queen sounds like a monster. You’re not a monster, Lexa.”

Lexa’s eyes flicker with something, gratification or perhaps relief. “Very well. I will have a horse and an escort prepared for you.”

“Thank you,” Clarke says. She unrolls her map and flattens it out as best she can against her leg. “Will you...?” She gestures.

Lexa walks to her table and picks up a charcoal pencil, holding out her open hand for the map. Clarke hands it to her and Lexa begins to fill in the map, at first with sure strokes, then hesitating, penciling things in with a lighter hand. Eventually she finishes and pushes the map back towards Clarke, who takes it and studies the new markings. Lexa has drawn in the Ice Nation’s movement so far, then used arrows to show their most likely routes and targets. She’s also labeled possible routes of retreat from Camp Jaha. 

“This is great. Thank you,” says Clarke.

“Your horse will be ready in an hour,” says Lexa.

Once again Clarke lingers. 

“Is there something else I may help you with, Clarke?” Lexa asks politely, already absorbed in another piece of paper.

“What did you say to Carver?” Clarke blurts out.

Lexa looks up, not quite startled but definitely not expecting that blunt a question. “Why?”

“She came out of here looking like she was about to have a panic attack.” Clarke can see Lexa’s jaw tightening, clamping down into what’s sure to be a series of terse non-answers. “I asked her to see you on my behalf. I didn’t want to just come barging in here like I did before.”

“It is between me and Carver,” Lexa says, standing straight with her fingertips resting on the table.

“Are you telling me it’s classified?”

Lexa’s eyes take on the slightly cloudy look that means she’s confused. “Classified as what?”

“Never mind.” Clarke folds her map instead of rolling it and tucks it into a pocket sewn on the inside of her jacket. “Thank you for this. I’ll try to convince the council at Camp Jaha to think about sending you some supplies. Maybe weapons, or we could take on your wounded to care for them.”

Lexa inclines her head graciously.

Clarke leaves feeling unsatisfied, still dying to know what had Carver fleeing the war room like she was being chased by a pauna. Carver is waiting for her in the exact same position she was in when Clarke left, hands folded respectfully in front of her. “How would you feel about a trip to Camp Jaha?” Clarke asks, wanting to give Carver a chance to stretch her legs.

Carver glances down the hall at the doors to the war room. “I…should not. I will be needed here in Polis.”

Clarke narrows her eyes. “What did Lexa say to you?”

Carver’s blush returns. “I—”

“Carver.”

She mutters something off to the side.

Clarke strains to hear. “What?”

“Heda asked me…” Carver bites her lip. “What my—my intentions are. Towards you.”

Clarke freezes, utterly rigid with shock, then rage. “She did _what_?”

Carver tries to placate her. “I did not tell her anything, Clarke. If I had intentions, they would remain between us.” She has to say the last few words while hurrying after Clarke, who is stomping down the hall, not caring that the guards are trying to intercept her. She shoulders past them, gambling that they won’t actually stab her to death right on Lexa’s doorstep, and bursts back into the war room. “You said _what_ to Carver?”

Lexa turns around in surprise, a book in her hands. “Clarke?”

“You asked Carver about her _intentions_ towards me?” Clarke advances very rapidly on Lexa who, to her credit, stands her ground.

Lexa closes the book but marks the spot with her finger, as though she’ll return to it as soon as Clarke is nice enough to leave. It’s infuriating. “I would not have one of my people treating you badly. I only wanted—”

“You don’t get to interfere in my life! You lost any chance at that privilege. If Carver wants to have intentions towards me, she can and it’s none of your business.” 

Lexa scoffs. “Of course it is my business that my best scout would consider being away from Polis while we prepare for war in order to deliver your message to Camp Jaha. She would have been gone for days knowing that I might ask her to ride out at any moment. That is the effect you have, Clarke.”

Clarke stammers, very aware that she just asked Carver to do exactly what Lexa is accusing her of wanting to do. “So just tell her to stay in Polis. You know she’ll obey you. Let us work out whatever problems there are between us.”

Lexa turns away, opening up her book and bending her head. “Fine. I will act towards Carver as I always have. Thank you for your advice, Clarke.”

Clarke is suddenly quiet. “Carver and I aren’t seeing each other.” It’s important to her that Lexa knows this, even if she can’t admit to herself why.

Lexa’s head shifts, but she remains facing away from Clarke, her long coat obscuring the finer details of her body language. “Go to the stables, Clarke. I already sent a runner to ensure your horses were being prepared.”

Clarke wants to stay but she has a message to deliver. “We’ll talk about this when I get back,” she says.

Lexa does turn around at that. “You’re returning?”

Clarke realizes she said she would come back without really thinking about it. In her mind, she’d just assumed she would come back to Polis, at least temporarily. She has friends here now; she likes the easiness of life here. At Camp Jaha there’s only a hungry expectation waiting for her, wanting her to tell them what to do next or tell them how to feel or be an example for everyone. “Yeah, I’ll be back. I don’t know when. It’ll probably take a few days to convince them to help.”

“I will…” Lexa pauses, choosing her words carefully. “…look forward to your return.”

Clarke can’t help herself; she smiles, small and simple, like the hesitant smiles she used in the early days of knowing Lexa. “See you soon.”

*

_Now_

Clarke wants to rear back but she’s frozen in place. It’s been so long since the mountain, but she suddenly feels the hurt like a dull ache, an old injury that has long since healed but left its indelible mark on her body. “What do you mean, betrayed me?”

Lexa looks at her steadily, but Clarke can see the corded tension in her neck. “I have not been honest with you about why I’m here. I was…I am being selfish.”

Clarke tries not to move, not to leap away from Lexa and follow the urge to pace. “Lexa, please. Just tell me.”

Lexa swallows, but keeps her head high. “I am dying, Clarke.”

Clarke’s brain is completely blank. She almost doesn’t comprehend the words. “What?” she says, the only thing she’s able to force out of her mouth and into the open air.

“I have been losing sight in my left eye for some time now. After our healers were unable to treat it, I went to Camp Jaha to see your mother—”

“You saw my mother but didn’t tell me?” Clarke interrupts. A new wave of hurt slams into her and this time she does manage to get up, clutching her head in her hands. 

“Your people still have the tools they took from the mountain. Your mother diagnosed me. She says there is a tumor impinging on my optic nerve.” Lexa says this casually, as though she’s heard and repeated the words many times. 

Clarke just blinks, trying to absorb the monumental amount of new information being thrown at her. “A tumor—isn’t there a surgical option?”

“We tried it. The tumor returned.”

Clarke is truly reeling now. She turns, paces a little, turns back, can’t figure out which direction to go in, and sinks to her knees. “How? When?”

“The harvest festivals,” Lexa says. “I knew you would be in Polis, so I chose those times to see your mother. Do not be angry with her, Clarke. I know that among the Sky People the covenant between doctor and patient is sacred. I invoked it to keep her silence. She has been very kind to me.”

“She tried to operate on the tumor?” Clarke asks hoarsely, feeling like she might cry.

Lexa uses both hands to pull her hair aside, just over her ear, revealing a tidy scar. Clarke can see how the hair growing around it is shorter than the rest of Lexa’s hair by a good six inches; she hadn’t noticed until now from all the little gathers and braids. “At first we thought it was successful. I could see out of my eye again. But before the last harvest festival I noticed black in my vision. I returned to your mother and she confirmed the tumor was growing back in place. So I began preparing my people for my death. Our chief healer knows to begin searching for the next commander when I am gone. There will be a strong interim council of leaders. And then I came here.” Lexa’s voice finally falters. “I am afraid I have been extremely selfish, Clarke. But for once, I…”

Clarke’s heart is breaking but she can’t stop herself from understanding, from putting on a brave face. “For once you took something for yourself.”

Lexa nods, a short, guilty jerk of her head.

“Did my mom say it was inoperable this time?”

“She said it would be difficult and risky, especially without radiation treatment to shrink the tumor.”

Clarke tries to do a mental inventory of everything they found in the mountain. She’d argued for days with the clan leaders about keeping the place around, using it not just for its supplies but to help advance the Grounder way of life. Lexa had thought it would invite more war from other clans looking for conquest—and in any case her people wanted that evil place cleansed by fire. And they wanted no chance that the Sky People might use the mountain to oppress them again. In the end, her arguing bought her enough time to strip the place of supplies and remove the explosive payloads from the warheads, and then it was sealed and the entrances buried. 

They’d gutted it thoroughly, taking weeks to catalogue everything and then carefully transport some of the more delicate equipment to Camp Jaha. As far as she can remember, there was nothing for radiation treatments of cancer. Ironic that they should be living in a world soaked with radiation, but not be able to use it.

“So that’s it. You’re dying.” Clarke sits back on her heels, still unwilling to completely believe this is happening.

“I am,” Lexa confirms. 

“How long?”

“A few months. Perhaps longer.”

Clarke supposes that in the back of her mind, she’d thought she and Lexa would have years yet. They would see each other at the harvest festival and sometimes when Lexa rode through the farmlands and one day Clarke would finally decide it was time to go back to Polis. But Nova always came first, and there was always some big improvement project to implement or some trader’s dispute or a medical emergency, even though for the past year or so the place has finally started to run itself without her. “A few months,” Clarke repeats.

“I didn’t know if you would—if we still had a connection. I hoped that at least we would be friends by the end. I did not expect—” She makes a tiny gesture between them. “I am sorry, Clarke. I should have told you before last night.”

“Yeah, you should have,” Clarke says. Even if Lexa doesn’t physically shrink away from her, she can see the skin tightening around her eyes, the subtle flex of her hands as they stop short of a full clench. She decides swiftly, in that moment. “But I get it.”

Lexa’s eyes widen.

“Just…give me a few days to digest this. And talk to my mom. But don’t leave, okay? I want you to stay.”

Lexa’s veneer of calm fractures; Clarke can see the hope shining through. “Then I will stay,” she says. 

Clarke slowly reaches out, finding Lexa’s hand, squeezing it, holding on.


	6. Chapter 6

_Then_

They set out with only a few hours of daylight left, so they don’t even get in a full day of travel before they’re forced to make camp for the night. Clarke spends most of it jammed tightly in her bedroll, fretting over what she’s going to say to everyone. She hates that the decision to return was essentially taken out of her hands, but this is something they have to know. 

She’s the first one up in the morning, shivering in the morning air while she packs everything in her saddlebags and makes sure the fire is properly smothered. The warriors of her party grumble and rub their eyes, but otherwise follow her lead as she mounts up. They push hard, stopping only for a short break at noon to eat, and then push again, as fast as they dare to go with the horses knowing there’s still a day’s travel left. She’s still not used to riding, though, and her exhausted body blissfully cuts off the frenzy of thoughts all crowding up in her brain by passing out the minute she’s in her bedroll. She wakes up the next day feeling refreshed in spite of herself.

After another morning of hard riding and the usual brief stop to water the horses, they come upon the clearing surrounding Camp Jaha in the late afternoon. They made good time, considering the roads are patched with snow in some places, iced over in others.

“Let me go first,” Clarke says.

A warrior with a slashing tattoo across the right half of his face speaks. “Heda told us—”

“If they see you riding up without warning, they’ll probably kill you,” Clarke interrupts. “So heda can accept that her warriors need to adapt to the circumstances or end up dead.”

The warrior clicks his mouth shut, but without any apparent ill temper. He just tilts his head, indicating Clarke should go on.

She nudges her horse forward and sends it towards the main gate at a steady walk. As she gets closer she makes sure her hands are very visible. In her Grounder clothes, dirty from days of riding, she knows how easily they might mistake her for one of _them_. Guards buzz around the gate and she can hear thin shouts sending up an alert. When she’s close enough to make out faces, she can see how the guards are shocked to recognize her. 

“It’s Clarke Griffin!” one of them calls. 

Another one hastily pulls open the gate, allowing her entrance. The camp has developed while she was gone: more permanent structures starting to replace tents, regular paths worn by constant passage marking out a rough grid, structural reinforcements to the fence. As she’s dismounting she hears a commotion from the entrance to the Ark and then her mother is running at her, face full of desperation, arms already reaching for her. She grabs Clarke in a suffocating hug, clutching her tightly, and for a moment Clarke feels as safe and loved as when she was a little girl. But it’s just a moment, evaporating quickly and leaving behind a rime of worry and stress. 

“I’m really happy to see you mom, but this is an emergency. I need to speak to you and Kane immediately,” Clarke says.

Abby’s elation fades into guardedness, the same careful look she started using to evaluate Clarke after the missile at Tondc, and it almost hits Clarke like a physical blow. But she remains standing, arms loosely held in her mom’s hands, like this is any other day, any normal visit. Abby nods and leads her back towards the Ark.

Before they hit the door Bellamy comes running, a gun slung over his shoulder, with Octavia hot on his heels and Lincoln not far after her. “Dammit Clarke,” he says, and grabs her in a hug almost as strong as her mom’s. 

Octavia hangs back close to Lincoln and Clarke doesn’t say anything. They both have hurts that run deep, and perhaps it will take more than a couple of months to seal them. Perhaps they never will. 

“Come on,” Clarke says, and follows Abby without asking for permission to bring Bellamy along. They both know she’ll tell him everything anyway. They walk into the Ark proper and her body automatically orients itself, the sound of her boots on metal corridor as reassuringly familiar as recycled air and the faint hum of electronics. The Ark is much quieter these days; their limited power options are reserved mostly for medical emergencies. 

“Clarke,” Kane says when they walk into his office. He shoots to his feet, walking over and dropping a hand onto her shoulder. He looks at her kindly. “It’s good to see you back.”

“I’m not back, not exactly.”

Abby’s gaze sharpens at that.

Clarke pulls her map out of her pocket, worrying the paper with her fingertips. “I came to let you know that there’s a war brewing. The Ice Nation is going to invade and Camp Jaha lies along one of their possible invasion routes. I came to warn you.”

“How do you know this?” asks Abby, sounding as though she already knows the answer.

“I just came from Polis,” Clarke answers, refusing to be shy or ashamed of it. “They’ve been receiving reports that the Ice Nation is gathering their army at the border. They’ve been attacking villages here and there in preparation.” She unfolds her map and spreads it out on Kane’s desk to show them. She points to where Camp Jaha has been marked and the last known location of the Ice Nation forces.

“Polis? The Grounder capital?” Bellamy asks.

“I’ll explain later,” Clarke says. She points again to the map. “We need to be prepared, just in case they come this way. There’s evacuation routes on the map, if it comes to that.”

Kane looks at Abby in an unspoken conversation. She doesn’t know if she’s comfortable with how in sync they are these days, conveying meaning with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “Where did this information come from?” asks Abby.

She knew they wouldn’t just accept it, yet she’s still frustrated that they need their hands held through the whole explanation. “Lexa,” she says.

The entire room erupts, Bellamy snarling loudly over Kane’s incredulous questions. For her part, Abby, folds her arms and narrows her eyes at her daughter. “You’ve been in Polis, with Lexa. How can you know she’s telling you the truth?”

“Because an Ice Nation raid nearly killed her. I saw it,” Clarke says, embellishing things just enough to keep the conversation moving forward. She needs them to understand as quickly as possible what the danger is. “They don’t have to worry about the mountain anymore so they’re taking advantage of it. We either prepare Camp Jaha to repel invaders or we retreat to a safer location and hope Lexa wins this war.”

“What happens if she loses?” Kane asks.

Clarke’s mouth is a grim line. “The Ice Nation queen is the kind of woman who dismembers people for information and sends her enemies their loved ones’ heads in boxes to taunt them. We can probably expect more of the same.”

Bellamy’s face is contorted in deep thought. “What if we sent Lexa supplies? Weapons?” 

Clarke could hug him a dozen times again for bringing it up before she had to. “I don’t think she’d be opposed to it. There’s no Mount Weather to punish them for using guns.”

“We are not arming these people when they already outnumber us a hundred to one,” says Abby, but Clarke can see Kane making a face to match Bellamy. She presses her advantage with him, knowing that at one time he wanted to arm the Grounders too.

“A gun is useless without bullets,” she says. “Send them just enough to make a difference. They’ll run out by the end of the war. And I’ll be there to make sure they don’t hoard them for later. It’s just a temporary loan.”

Abby snaps. “Absolutely not. You are not going back, especially if you’d be walking into a battlefront.”

Clarke, who has missed her mom terribly, has nevertheless gotten used to her independence. In Polis she’s accorded the respect of an adult, of a leader, of an equal to heda. As much as her mother might accept that Clarke is no longer a child, she still doesn’t fully comprehend the concept of Clarke the adult and it instantly chafes at her freshly-scarred wounds. “I am going back. I promised I would bring back information on what our people plan to do and if the Tree People can rely on our help. At least let me tell them you’ll stay out of the way.”

“Tell them? Or tell Lexa?” Abby asks.

Clarke wants to grip her hair with both hands at how that is absolutely not the point. “What about some medical supplies. Their healers are okay with emergency first aid, but it’s still pretty basic. I can teach them. I know we don’t have much but it would save a lot of lives.”

At that, Abby and Kane exchange glances and Bellamy suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

“What?” Clarke demands.

Bellamy speaks up. “We’ve been inventorying Mount Weather. They had a lot of supplies, Clarke. We’re talking decades’ worth of stuff.”

Abby’s face is a combination of incensed and betrayed and Clarke instantly figures out that they didn’t want to tell her because they didn’t want to share. Her mouth drops open. “Come on, they’re about to fight a war that protects us.”

“No, they’re about to fight a war where we are coincidentally protected,” says Abby. “If you hadn’t been in Polis would Lexa even have bothered to warn us? She doesn’t care what happens to us. We’re not her people.”

Clarke struggles, swallowing and opening her mouth and swallowing again, because her mom is right. She has no doubt if Lexa thought sacrificing everyone in Camp Jaha would somehow win the war or spare her people losses, she would do it. She would hate herself and hate herself, but she would do it. “We’re more valuable to her alive than in the hands of the Ice Nation,” Clarke says at last. “It’s entirely to her benefit to protect Camp Jaha and its resources from falling into Ice Nation hands.” She can see Bellamy shifting, accepting this truth. Kane is leaning towards her too. She stares intently at her mom, willing her to give in.

Abby’s throat tightens the way it does before she makes a big decision. “Fine. We’ll send some medical supplies.”

“I think we should send weapons too,” says Kane. “I’ll send some guards to train their warriors.”

“I’ll go,” Bellamy says.

Clarke looks again to Abby, this time with hope. 

“All right,” she says grudgingly. 

Clarke wants to hug her the way she used to whenever her mom would give in and let her stay up late on a school night, or slip Clarke her own sweet ration for a double dessert. Instead she reaches out to touch her mom’s hand. It feels as strong as ever, a surgeon’s hand, and there’s a measure of comfort in that at least. “Thank you,” she says.

“We’d better look over these evacuation routes as well,” says Kane, returning to the map.

The rest of the evening is spent sending someone to retrieve Lexa’s warriors, putting together a squad to go to Polis, and finding a cart for the supplies.

“It’s dark. You’re at least spending the night, right?” Abby asks, watching Clarke eat at a side table in the large room serving as the Ark’s council chamber. Monty and Raven have both drifted in and out, but Octavia and Jasper have made themselves scarce. Clarke doesn’t blame them. 

“Yeah, we’ll leave at first light,” Clarke says. She finishes the last of her pasta. “You know I’m going to have to tell Lexa about you using Mount Weather, right?”

Abby frowns. “No, I don’t know that. Why should you? She left us at Mount Weather. We should be able to do what we want with it.”

Clarke searches for a way to explain. The way the Tree People have treated her for destroying the mountain has impressed on her just how much they hated and feared it and some of their antipathy has soaked into her general consciousness. “The mountain is evil to them, mom. It’s like it’s cursed. For decades their people went in and didn’t come out. They won’t like that we’re using it.”

“As far as I’m concerned they don’t get a say in what we like or dislike, not after they betrayed us.” Abby’s gaze softens and she leans in a little. “After Lexa betrayed you.”

Clarke feels her dinner churning in her gut. “Lexa and I have an understanding now. I still hate what happened but…” She toys with her fork, sliding it back and forth on her plate. “I’m dealing with it.”

Abby takes a moment to parse this. “Well…good. That’s good. I’m glad you’re working through it.” 

That’s the mom that Clarke has missed so desperately: the woman who could look at her and hold her and understand her without judging, who just wanted her daughter to be happy. But that’s not the world they live in anymore. Happiness isn’t meant for certain people, Clarke has discovered, or least not regular happiness. “I’m going to bed,” she says, pushing away her food. “It’s a long trip back to Polis.” She doesn’t miss how her mother’s eyes follow her hungrily as she leaves the room. 

*

_Now_

When they were first establishing Nova, Clarke quickly discovered she needed a place for herself where she could get away for a few hours and not be bothered. She found it in the boughs of a massive chestnut oak about a mile’s hike from the village’s then-borders. Over time she moved a few things out there, nailed in a few boards to make a comfortable perch, strung up a slanted tarp to keep off the rain, and before she knew it she had a working treehouse. 

She leaves Lexa at the river and beelines directly for her hideaway, climbing up its rope ladder and pulling it up after her. And then when she’s curled up on the wooden floor, safely out of sight of everyone who could possibly see her, she lets out a crumpled sob. She cries for a few minutes, letting herself be sad, holding her stomach and rocking slightly. And then when her tears start to slow down, she sits up and cleans off her face and drinks deeply from a sealed jug of water she keeps up there. She spends the next hour breathing, not thinking, just numbly listening to the sounds of the forest. 

When she feels like she can finally face other people, she douses her face, scrubs it with her sleeves, and climbs down. She feels unsteady on her legs, as though she’s just run for miles. The walk back to the village takes a bit longer than usual. When she makes it to the outer fields, she can see children running along the borders, hands brushing along the wheat stalks. Their laughter carries to her, bright and clear, completely unaware that such a thing as sadness exists. A flock of birds rustles overhead, coming to roost in a big tree nearby. The earth is vibrant and alive, with good, rich earth for building and growing. 

She keeps walking, only peripherally aware of people bidding her good evening, and manages to find her way to her house, where she locks the door tight and draws the curtains. She doesn’t want company. She lights a few candles and digs in a trunk by her desk, where she keeps her old notebooks. She has to go to the bottom for the one she wants, the journal from her first stay in Polis. She flips through it, seeing everything again through a young woman’s eyes, remembering how it felt then with her wounds so fresh and raw. It shows in her work, she thinks. The final few pages are blank; she’d had to stop drawing during the war and she never got around to finishing out this notebook. When it was over she just started a new one.

The last drawing is lightly done, almost hesitant. She traces the familiar lines of Lexa’s frame with her eyes, noting where she got things wrong, the detail work in her drape and her hair. She’d drawn it mostly from memory. She could probably reproduce it from memory if she had to. 

She’s suddenly exhausted, a heaviness in her head from crying. She carefully replaces the journal and falls into bed, barely stopping to pull off her boots. She grabs the edge of the blanket and pulls it over her torso.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, even though her body is completely drained. She thinks about Lexa, hiding such a dire secret from her for years. Her own mother, not telling her. She hates that she can’t really be mad at Abby for not breaking a patient’s privacy, not even for her own daughter. She can’t be mad at Lexa either for wanting to deal with her illness on her own terms. But she is mad at both of them, and the anger won’t let her fall asleep.

She curses, throwing off the blanket and yanking on her boots with a few vicious tugs. Then she stomps all the way to Lexa’s house, banging three times on the door. Lexa answers the door fairly quickly; she must not have been asleep either, although she’s down to her pants and a simple loose shirt. Her face is washed grey and blue in the moonlight. “Clarke,” she says.

Clarke pushes past her until she’s standing just about in the middle of the outer room. A few candles burn on the table next to her. Lexa closes the door, plunging them into a flickering half-darkness. She stands, silent and still, waiting for Clarke.

“I’m so mad at you,” Clarke says. “You had no right to come here and involve me in your life and then tell me you’re dying. You’re right, Lexa, it is selfish. What am I supposed to do? Fall in love with a dying woman?”

Lexa’s lip trembles slightly as she inhales, but her voice is steady. “I have no expectations. You are entitled to hate me for deceiving you.”

“I don’t _hate_ you, Lexa,” Clarke says, exasperated. “I hate that this was the only way you thought we could be together.”

“You remember our conversation before you left Polis,” Lexa says gently. 

Clarke sighs; it’s been over a decade, but that conversation is the one thing that has lingered between them like a dangling thread, waiting only for one of them to take hold of it and pull. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Clarke, I will not pressure you any further. I know you have asked me to stay, but I think doing so will cause you more pain. I will return to Polis.” Lexa is calm, entirely too reasonable.

“Oh no you don’t,” Clarke snaps. “You don’t get to run away. You’re going to stay here, and you’re going to fight.”

“Clarke—”

“Tomorrow we’re going to see my mother and we’re going to actually discuss treatment options. Got it?”

Lexa slowly blinks, head tipping forward a fraction, just enough to acquiesce. 

“Now get into bed,” Clarke says. She follows Lexa into the bedroom, cutting off Lexa’s confusion by sliding under the covers. 

“You said you needed a few days,” Lexa says, mirroring Clarke despite herself. They rustle around under the blanket, getting comfortable, even though Clarke can see Lexa is trying to hold herself almost completely still on her side of the bed.

“I changed my mind,” Clarke says. She pulls Lexa flush against her, spooning her from behind. “Shut up and go to sleep.” She feels tension leave Lexa’s body; slowly her own grip around Lexa’s waist relaxes and they both fall asleep within minutes of each other.


	7. Chapter 7

_Then_

Clarke is quiet for most of the journey back to Polis. Bellamy, who walks next to her, respects her enough not to ask too many questions. He invited Octavia, but she nearly laughed in his face, then sharply informed him that she wanted nothing to do with the Grounders and then wandered off to find Lincoln. Monroe said yes, though, and so did Monty even though he’s not the best with guns. Raven had considered it, but ultimately declined. She did give Clarke a long-range radio so they could communicate quickly with Camp Jaha. There are a few guards too, the ones who Kane said were most curious about Grounder culture and would be the least abrasive in Polis.

They’re bringing along a crate of rifles with enough ammunition for training and a few firefights, all strapped down in a makeshift cart hitched to Clarke’s horse. Clarke is hoping that will be enough to make a decisive impact, should it come to that. 

She watches the others, mostly. Monroe is openly curious, studying the warriors sent with Clarke, taking in everything around them. Monty just seems sad and listless; Clarke suspects he left Camp Jaha to get away from the guilt. She didn’t see Jasper at all, but she can tell from Monty’s hangdog expression that he’s still angry. Bellamy just watches her when he’s not eyeing the Trikru warriors with suspicion.

They push well into the evening, stumbling in the half-darkness to groom and tether their horses, then cobbling together a fire, picking guard shifts, and exhaustedly curling themselves up in their bedrolls as close as they can get to the flames without singing themselves. They’re up again before first light, going as fast as they dare on the terrain, aware that time is of the essence. They could return and find that Lexa has already left with her army to confront the Ice Nation. 

It’s night when they come upon Polis, Clarke insisting that they travel by moonlight instead of waiting another night. They’ve made good time and the horses are tired but have enough strength left to spare. It’s as fast a journey as Clarke could have hoped, including the day it took to convince her mother and Kane to send aid.

Sentries spot them before they spot the sentries, shouting messages down the line to open the gates. It’s hard to approach Polis unnoticed anyway, with all the little tent cities that have sprung up beyond the homes clustered around the outer walls. Lexa is waiting for them at the stables in full armor even though it’s beyond late, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She could be sleeping in her armor for all Clarke knows. Clarke senses the other Arkers tense up at the sight of her, but she keeps walking in a straight line until they’re face to face. “I’m back,” she says.

“And you have brought friends,” Lexa says, making sure that the other Grounders can see her as she says it, the emphasis she places on _friends_.

“Friends and supplies. With your permission, we’ll train some of your warriors to use guns. Maybe you can end this war before it has a chance to really start.” The words are rehearsed but Clarke’s hopeful smile is genuine.

Lexa’s eyebrow quirks, revealing her mild surprise, but her answer comes back readily, loud enough for all those gathered around to hear. “Now that we are free of the mountain, the Tree People will gladly accept the weapons of the Sky People.”

Clarke gestures to the crates in the cart. “Medical supplies too. I can teach your healers some of our methods for dealing with emergency trauma.” 

“Your generosity will not be forgotten,” Lexa promises. She gestures and warriors start to move in to take the crates. The Ark guards automatically close ranks around the cart, hands coming to rest on their own weapons.

“Ma’am, our orders are not to let these weapons out of our sight,” says one, his eyes shifting rapidly from warrior to warrior in the torchlight.

“You will be allowed to accompany your supplies everywhere they go,” Lexa says. She flicks her hand and her warriors continue, ignoring the Arkers.

The guards look to Clarke, who nods, and they shift back into more relaxed stances, hands coming down to their sides.

“I’m gonna go with them,” Bellamy says, voice pitched low enough for only Clarke to hear.

“Okay. Try not to worry. It’s different this time,” Clarke says. She believes it, too, and tries to convey silently to Bellamy that they’re not all going to get conked on the head and their weapons stolen in the middle of the night. There’s not enough benefit in it for Lexa.

Lexa follows Bellamy with her eyes as he marches off with the guards, right on the heels of the warriors taking the guns to the armory. It’s only when he’s out of sight that she slides her focus back to Clarke.

“How is everything here?” Clarke asks.

“The Ice Nation continues to gather its forces along our border. It seems they are waiting for reinforcements from even their farthest villages,” Lexa says grimly. She starts walking back to the palace and Clarke walks with her, wanting only to go back to her room and fall into bed. It’s more comfortable than the ground and her back has become accustomed to her thin but soft mattress. Lexa’s step falters a beat as she notices Clarke keeping pace with her, but she keeps going. “I’ll make sure your guards are comfortable. I can have another sleeping mat brought for you if you wish to join them.”

“I miss my bed,” Clarke admits. 

They continue in silence all the way to the part of the palace that branches off into Lexa’s personal quarters. Lexa almost takes off down the hallway without another word, but then turns, her mantle swirling around her. “I am glad you returned, Clarke. Thank you.”

“We understand that if you lose this war, we all lose,” Clarke says, trying not to sound too much like it’s just business.

“I would have been glad to see you whether or not you returned with help,” Lexa says. 

“Oh. I…thanks,” Clarke stammers. 

“Good night, Clarke of the Sky People,” Lexa says, being oddly formal. She does that, retreats into formality when it suits her, letting it camouflage her true feelings and intentions. It’s useful for a leader; frustrating as hell in a friend. Clarke doesn’t know which Lexa is to her at the moment.

“Gud sheidgeda, Lexa Kom Trikru,” Clarke says. 

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a half-smile. “Your accent is better,” she notes.

“I’ve been working on it with Carver.”

Lexa’s mouth smoothes out and she takes a step back, preparing to turn. “She has been a good teacher, then.”

“Yeah, mostly she just points to things and tells me what they are and I repeat it until I get it.” Clarke can see how Lexa is just waiting for their conversation to be over, prepared to cut out at a moment’s notice. “I told you, Carver and I aren’t in a relationship.”

“It is not my business,” Lexa says. She’s leaning away, about to take a step, and even though Clarke is dog tired she needs Lexa to hear her.

“It’s okay if you wanted to think it was. Your business.” Clarke folds her arms tightly. “I know you still care. I’m okay with that.”

Lexa’s mouth drops just a fraction, but enough to be noticeable. Reading Lexa is all about the margins, the things she lets slip through the cracks when she can’t help herself or she thinks no one is looking. “I will keep that in mind, Clarke.” Her half-smile is back. “Rest now. If you would like, we could discuss the further terms of this arrangement between our peoples during breakfast.”

Clarke’s arms loosen up. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Gud sheidgeda, Clarke.”

“Good night, Lexa.”

Clarke watches Lexa walk down the hall, mantle swaying with her steps, then hurries to her room and dives under the covers, eager for sleep and a new day.

*

_Now_

Clarke wakes up suddenly, dreams evaporating and the memory the day before rushing back to the front of her mind. A mild ache blooms in her lower back; she’s not used to this mattress and her body isn’t used to moving from bed to bed anymore. She wonders when, exactly, she got old enough to develop back problems from sleeping in a different bed. There was a time when she didn’t think she would ever be that old—she would die in a war first, or disease would get her, or a hunting accident, or any one of a dozen things waiting for the unwary on Earth.

Lexa is still asleep. Of the handful of times they’ve ever woken up together, Lexa has always been the first up. Clarke used to think she didn’t sleep at all, just catnapped a few hours and then somehow functioned through the day. She’s completely out at the moment, face slack, body completely limp in a true deep sleep. Clarke watches her, wondering if she could have figured out Lexa was sick sooner. But there’s nothing—she looks healthy as ever, if a little hollow in the cheeks. She almost can’t believe—doesn’t _want_ to believe—that there’s something inside of her, slowly killing her. Something so terrifying, so life-altering, should leave an outward manifestation. 

There’s just Lexa, barely older than Clarke, still in the prime of her life and ready to leave it.

Clarke doesn’t feel like wasting any more time. She strokes Lexa’s arm, then shakes her gently. 

Lexa eyes fly open and her hand reaches towards her pillow. Clarke knows there’s a knife under it, a lifetime habit that can’t be broken no matter how safe Lexa feels. “Mounin,” says Clarke.

Lexa relaxes back into her pillow, hair scattered thickly around her head. “Hello.”

“Get dressed and we’ll eat. We’re going to Camp Jaha.” Clarke gets out of bed without another word. She can’t look Lexa in the eye without completely collapsing and she has to be the strong one for both of them now. There’s a little ember of anger still within her that’s keeping her going. She stokes it, letting it carry her into the outer room where a long counter against one wall holds food and a metal catchbasin. She focuses on slicing up fruit, buttering a few pieces of bread. 

Lexa emerges shortly thereafter, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn while twisting strands of her hair back into a small braid. She pulls on her light armor, buckling and strapping it with the kind of absentmindedness born of routine, then pulls on her boots. When she stands up she’s the commander again, sharp and put together. Her sword goes around her waist and her dagger goes into its sheath at the small of her back. Another dagger, probably the one she kept under her pillow, goes in her boot. She stands next to Clarke at the counter, methodically eating her breakfast, occasionally watching Clarke eat. It’s so different from the looks they shared just yesterday; Clarke can’t even believe it’s been less than a day since she felt so optimistic about the future. 

“Ready?” she asks when they’re down to a few crumbs.

Lexa nods, following Clarke from the house to the stables. People start a bit, seeing Lexa armed and armored, but Clarke keeps a reassuring smile on her face and no one stops them. 

Lexa’s horse is in excellent condition and she makes an approving noise as she inspects its gleaming coat, its clean hooves, its neatly braided mane.

Clarke’s horse is a chestnut mare, not the most elegant creature but hardy and able to eat up the miles without tiring. She’s a full hand shorter than Lexa’s enormous animal; Clarke wonders if it’s a status thing or if Lexa just wanted a big horse. Either way, she sits shorter in the saddle than Lexa and has to tilt her head to look at her—minor, but annoying.

Once they’re clear of the village, Clarke urges her horse into a trot, then a canter, trusting that Lexa will keep up. She’s taken more to riding over the years and her seat is natural, relaxed. It’s a gorgeous spring day and she wishes she could just enjoy this, cool wind flowing through her hair, greening trees rolling past, racing down the road with a beautiful woman. Instead they’re heading for Camp Jaha, where Abby prefers to live and keeps a free clinic and medical school.

They rest the horses for an hour at midday, finding respite on the side of the road in the shade of a few huge pines. They don’t talk, aware of what they’re doing and why. Lexa is watchful this far from the settlement, eyes automatically scanning their surroundings every minute or so. But the road between Nova and Jaha is well-traveled and well-kept and it’s practically unheard of to encounter trouble this deep in Trikru territory. They had a bandit problem once, a year after settling Nova, and Lexa’s retaliation was terrible and swift. They haven’t had bandits since.

They push on as soon as the sun has passed its zenith, cantering the horses again and tapering off as they come within a few miles of Camp Jaha around sunset. 

The camp is more of a satellite settlement now, much expanded with the road leading right to the gate and the perimeter fence fortified to include a palisade behind the line of electrified wire. The tents are gone, replaced by houses or modules carefully brought down from the Ark. The largest building is the medical center, built in the shadow of the Ark with its own dedicated generator and backup system. Nearly half of everything they took from the medical wing in Mount Weather is here, the rest turned into Nova’s own hospital with much swearing and fretting by Raven and her team of engineers. The first move from mountain to Jaha was bad enough; Raven nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to disassemble, transport, and reassemble the more delicate equipment from the mountain, so they’ve left a good portion of it at Jaha. 

Abby comes down the main street to greet them, at first openly happy to see her daughter, then more cautious when she sees Lexa.

“I told her everything,” Lexa says.

Abby opens her mouth to explain but Clarke shakes her head. “I was mad, but I can’t blame you for being a good doctor.”

They leave their horses at the small stables by the gate and follow Abby into the medical center, all the way to her office. Clarke hasn’t been in this room for a while, not since after the last harvest. While everyone else makes the trek back from Polis she likes to branch off after they reach Tondc and visit her mother for a week or so, then ride back on her own. Many of the decorations in the office are framed drawings done by Clarke herself, though a few are from patients. 

Abby forgoes her desk chair, instead leaning on her desk while Clarke collapses into one of two visitor chairs, tired after a full day of riding. Lexa sits with a bit more control, but still sends up a puff of dust from the road. “I can guess what this is about,” she says.

“You need to shrink the tumor with radiation before you’d consider operating?” Clarke asks, not bothering with pleasantries. They can always be pleasant later.

“Not necessarily.” Abby hesitates, and Lexa nods her consent. “I could operate on it now, depending on what the scans show, but I would prefer to shrink it first, and we don’t have chemotherapy meds, so it has to be targeted radiation. And for all we know, since Lexa’s body is well-adapted to radiation, it might not be effective.”

“What are the risks of operating now?”

“Total blindness in one eye.” Abby’s voice goes flat. “Death.” 

“The odds are not good, Clarke,” says Lexa. “I prefer the certainty of seeing you for a short while over the small chance of living longer.”

Abby shifts uncomfortably at that, but holds her tongue, for which Clarke is grateful. Even if they’ve long since left behind the adult-child dynamic, Clarke is still her daughter, and some things can’t be unlearned. Abby has never entirely forgiven Lexa, either, not after the backbreaking months of worrying for Clarke she did following the fall of Mount Weather.

“There’s no chemotherapy equipment?”

“I’ve been through the inventory from Mount Weather three times,” Abby says. “Like on the Ark they just didn’t have the resources or the inclination to treat long-term diseases. And almost all their research was targeted at inoculating themselves against the outside world.”

Clarke taps her leg with her fingers. “What about machines that produce radiation? Anything that could be adapted? What does Raven think?” she asks. 

“I asked Abby not to tell Raven,” Lexa interrupts, and Clarke throws her hands up in front of her, completely exasperated.

“Are you kidding me?” 

“That is how secrets become rumors,” Lexa says, and folds her arms in a very authoritative manner.

Clarke doesn’t miss Abby’s look, one that clearly says _you see what I’ve been dealing with_. She resists the urge to punch Lexa in the arm. “We’re calling Raven in the morning and we’re going to see if there’s anything she can do. And—” She holds up a quelling finger before Lexa can even think to object. “She’s not going to tell anyone because I’m going to ask her very nicely, so you can just deal with it.”

“I already have a theory that we could use an x-ray machine to deliver a targeted dose,” Abby says, pulling a notebook out of her desk and flipping through to a page of carefully-written notes. 

Lexa looks between mother and daughter. “It seems I have been outvoted.”

Clarke can see something change inside of Lexa, but she’s unsure if it’s hope or fear. “Let’s not get excited until we hear what Raven has to say,” Clarke says cautiously. She feels like a hypocrite; she’s already giddy at the prospect of Lexa having years yet to live instead of months. 

Lexa just nods, stands up, and leaves with startling abruptness.

“I thought she’d take it better than that,” Abby says. She leaves her notes for a second to lean against Clarke’s chair and rub her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’m handling it,” Clarke says. All the same, when she stands up she hugs her mom and doesn’t let go for a very long time.


	8. Chapter 8

_Then_

Clarke sleeps deeply and well, body falling back into the rhythms of Polis. She wakes up to the faint cries of seagulls and the clomp of boots in the hallway. The palace has slowly filled as Lexa’s allies arrive in the capital and it’s not unusual for Clarke to have company in the showers these days. She’d been a bit startled the first time, coming in to find another woman in one of the stalls, sluicing herself with cold water and cursing quietly at the icy coldness of it all. She’d ignored Clarke, wrapping herself in a towel and rushing from the room, presumably to get warm.

Today she has the bathroom to herself; she’s woken up a bit later than usual, her body taking the rest it needs. She rushes through her routine, grabs a bread roll and an apple from her stash of food, and hurries out to find Bellamy and the others. She doesn’t have to go far; she hears the crack-crack-crack of a rifle firing in single mode and emerges onto the parade grounds in front of the palace to find a bunch of targets set up in a makeshift range and Bellamy, Monroe, and the Ark guards demonstrating shooting basics. 

Lexa is watching it all, standing on the stone steps directly in front of Clarke. She turns, hearing the footsteps of Clarke’s approach, and her face visibly shifts into something happy—or at the very least less stern than it was before. 

“How’s it going?” Clarke asks, eyes flicking back and forth to try and assess the situation. Bellamy is cautiously handing his weapon over to a Trikru warrior who seems tentative but unafraid. He shoulders the rifle, adjusting his stance according to Bellamy’s prodding, places his finger on the trigger and—

The warriors in the courtyard all flinch as their comrade fires. He finds the target, sending up a little spray of wood, and his eyes widen before he grins broadly. The other warriors step up after that and Lexa nods approvingly. “It is going well,” she says. She looks at the food in Clarke’s hand. “Did you sleep well, Clarke?”

“Yeah,” she says, suddenly very aware of her hands and how rushed she must look. “Any more news from the border?”

Lexa’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Nothing substantial. But the rest of our allies will arrive soon, and we will march for the forward camp my scouts have established.”

“How soon?” Clarke gives up on pretending she didn’t oversleep and starts munching on her apple. 

“As soon as my warriors are competent with your weapons,” says Lexa. “Be prepared to leave by tomorrow.”

Clarke nods with her mouth full and for a moment they watch Lexa’s soldiers train, taking it in turn to fire on the targets. Clarke can see Lexa noting who does well, who listens and who gets impatient with the warnings and rules. She’s just wondering what do with her apple core when Lexa speaks again. 

“Before we leave, there is something I would like to show you,” she says.

“Right now?”

Lexa nods and turns away, clearly expecting Clarke to follow. Clarke looks at Bellamy for a moment, at Monroe showing the warriors how to reload a clip with bullets, at Monty hovering around the edges trying to be useful but mostly gawking at the sights of Polis by daylight. Then she follows Lexa inside, taking a route she’s never followed before into a deep sub-basement. The corridors down here are simple concrete lit intermittently with torches. Lexa turns a few times, then stops in front of a metal door in the middle of the hallway. She grabs a torch out of its sconce and pushes the door open, leading the way inside with the light held aloft.

Clarke enters curiously. “Holy shit,” she says, eyes widening as she recognizes the room’s contents.

Paintings line the walls, fill the shelves, stacks and stacks of them in neat rows. 

“Where did you get all this? Did you take this from Mount Weather?” Clarke asks, turning in circles. 

“We were going to cleanse it with fire, before this war came upon us,” says Lexa, sweeping her torch in a slow, broad arc. “We will destroy it after I have dealt with the Ice nation.”

Clarke is momentarily paralyzed by the sheer enormity of what Lexa has done, transporting the Mountain’s archive of art to Polis. Then her brain catches up with her. “Wait, what? Cleanse the mountain with fire? Lexa, you can’t.”

Lexa makes a face, the one that says Lexa can do absolutely anything she wants, but her words are much more circumspect. “Many of my people died in the mountain, Clarke. It is a tomb. We will seal it and let it fade from memory.”

“There’s so much inside that could be useful,” Clarke protests. “Equipment, supplies, technology, things we could use to help each other.” Her voice hardens. “And since I’m the one who actually took the damn thing down, I say the Sky People get a vote in deciding what happens to it.”

Whenever she’s brought up the mountain before, Lexa has deferred to her, so Clarke isn’t expecting the way Lexa looms up next to her with the torch waving between them. “The mountain is death. No Grounder clan will countenance its continued existence. We have only left it this long because the coalition required more attention. I say this to you as a courtesy, Clarke of the Sky People.” Lexa steps closer, torchlight flickering dangerously in her eyes. “I will tear down that mountain with my own hands and leave no trace it ever existed.”

Clarke doesn’t step back, but neither does she advance. She struggles to force down her temper, remembering just how long Mount Weather terrorized the Grounder population. Thousands, Quint had said they’d lost. There aren’t even a thousand Sky People left to lose. “You’ve waited this long. After this is over, just wait a little longer. Let us salvage what we can. We’ll take everything useful out and then you can do whatever you want to it.”

Lexa stares at her, working things out in her head, or perhaps just trying not to yell at Clarke. At last she lowers the torch slightly. “We will discuss it after the fighting is over. Does this satisfy you?”

“Yes. Thank you. I know it’s a lot to ask,” Clarke says, mollified and wanting to mollify in turn. She remembers where they are and looks around again. “You really took everything?”

“We found them when we were scouting the mountain after your people withdrew. Humanity was once capable of great beauty.” Lexa peers closely at one of the paintings, a watery mix of blues and greys with a rising orange sun reflecting on water while small fishing boats make their way through a harbor. Clarke can see why she would be drawn to this one, with the harbor of Polis just outside. “They kept these things in the mountain as though they were the only ones deserving of them. As if only they understood beauty.” There’s something in Lexa’s tone besides anger, a wonder and longing for something so far in the future that it can’t even be put into words. 

“Maybe one day you can put these on display for everyone,” Clarke says. 

That seems to shake Lexa loose, and she straightens up, withdrawing the torch until it illuminates mostly her and Clarke. “One day,” she agrees.

Clarke turns in a slow full circle, really taking everything in. “Thank you for showing me this.”

“You are welcome to come down here at any time.”

Clarke can’t help but grin. “Thank you.”

“I have seen you drawing. These things matter to you.” Lexa says it almost like a question.

“Yes, they matter very much,” says Clarke. She could spend weeks, months down here, cataloguing everything from memory. She never thought she’d see the works of the great masters in person; they were just digital displays preserved in the Ark’s archives, probably lost to the ravages of war and time. And here they are, as many as their ancestors could salvage, to be held in trust for when humanity got it together enough to rebuild itself.

“Life should be about more than just surviving,” says Lexa, not looking at her. 

Clarke is stunned to hear it, too stunned to do anything but accept the torch when Lexa hands it to her and watch as Lexa leaves.

“We will leave soon, Clarke. Be ready,” she says, voice fading with every step. 

Clarke is left alone with her priceless art and the feeling that Lexa just told her something very important.

*

_Now_

Clarke shows Lexa around Camp Jaha while Abby gets on the radio to Raven back at Nova. There’s a general ward, a blocked off section for infectious diseases, surgery suites, recovery areas, classrooms, even a morgue. The Sky People still bury their dead; it’s a luxury they never thought they’d have, to return to the earth so completely and permanently. The Tree People frown on it, preferring fire, but Lexa makes vaguely interested noises and asks a few questions about the preparation of bodies. She seems perplexed by the notion of embalming to preserve the body.

They walk the fence, wander the halls of the remnants of the Ark, then get a bite to eat in the dining hall. They take their food to the picnic tables outside, enjoying the evening breeze and passing a mug of fruit juice sweetened with honey between them. 

It’s an hour later that Abby finds them still sitting there, ignoring the curious Arkers who are nonchalantly pretending that they also desire to use the picnic tables. “Raven thinks it’s doable,” says Abby as soon as she walks up. “She’ll ride to Jaha tomorrow.”

Clarke turns eagerly to Lexa, expecting joy, or at least something more than the slight sigh and setting of her shoulders. “Thank you, Abby of the Sky People,” she says, stiffly formal. “Clarke, is there a place I can rest?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll show you,” says Clarke. She tosses Abby a glance that says she doesn’t know why Lexa is reacting so strangely either, and gets up to show her to the living modules inside the Ark. 

She picks a room with a bed big enough for both of them and closes the door behind her to make sure her intent is clear. Lexa signals her acceptance by sitting on one side of the bed, clearly leaving room for Clarke to join her. She pulls off her boots, then massages her thighs, no doubt feeling some strain from the long day’s ride. Fit and able they may be, but they’re neither of them as young as they once were. Clarke sits gingerly next to her, wondering how to draw Lexa out of this mood she’s in. In the first place she would have to know what kind of mood it is to even try.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, because Lexa has always appreciated the direct approach.

“I am fine, Clarke. Merely tired.”

Clarke watches her, how she unstraps her sword with a blank look in her eyes, mind a million miles away from the task at hand. She reaches over to help. Lexa blinks and comes back to the present, body instinctively shying away until she relaxes and accepts Clarke’s touch. The sword goes on a nearby table, then her large dagger. The small boot dagger Clarke tucks under one of the pillows. “You’re distracted.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“I understand if you don’t want to get your hopes up about this. I’m not trying to be cruel, I swear.” She rests her hand on top of Lexa’s where it’s still massaging her thigh, stopping the motion and curling around her fingers. “I’m asking you to fight. One more time. For us.”

Lexa tugs her shoulder guards off and tosses them on the floor in disgust. “That is a dream, Clarke. If I recover, I will return to Polis and you will return to Nova. As long as I live, I am called to serve my people.”

Clarke sits back, mouth falling open in dismay. “So what, you want to die because you’re tired of being a leader?”

Lexa looks away, jaw clenching. “Because I am tired of not having you.”

At first Clarke is surprised, then intensely and overwhelmingly furious. “Don’t you _dare_ say this is for me. I’ve had enough of people dying for me. And what is that supposed to mean anyway? You can lead your people and still be with me.”

“If you truly believe that, then you are not the woman I have come to respect.” Lexa looks at her frankly. “Be honest, Clarke. Could you ever trust me to truly put you first when I must also consider my people’s needs?”

Clarke wants to protest that it doesn’t need to be like that, that the choice won’t come up again. But she knows herself well enough to foresee that she’d eventually get frustrated that they would always have to hold back a part of themselves. And she doesn’t know that they won’t ever be forced to choose again. Their peoples are close allies now, but life is unpredictable. They have to protect themselves. “Then think of your people,” Clarke says, trying to come at it from a different angle. “It’s not fair to them to lose you.”

“As it is my life, it is my choice,” Lexa says stubbornly, ignoring the way Clarke is glaring at her. 

“Actually, it’s not. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me? We belong to our people? We don’t get to have normal lives?” Clarke moves around to kneel on the floor in front of Lexa, pulling her gaze front and center. “I know you’re tired. But your people are better when you’re in charge.”

“You are afraid of who might take my place,” Lexa says accusingly. “You are afraid the next commander will take back what I have given you.”

It honestly hasn’t occurred to Clarke, and she files that away for later because it precisely the sort of the thing that should occur to her first. If Lexa should die, there’s no guarantee the next commander will be as inclined to help the Sky People. “If you really think that’s how I feel you wouldn’t have come to me in the first place.”

Lexa exhales noisily and she looks down at her lap, at where Clarke is still touching her hand. “That was not a worthy thought. Forgive me.”

Now Clarke touches her cheek, cupping it, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “Just get through this. I’ll still be here on the other side. We can talk about what happens then, okay?”

She can see some of the fight going out of Lexa, the weariness she must have been carrying for so long—not just from the illness, but the struggle to hide it, to hold the burden on her own. Clarke knows she wouldn’t have told anyone but her most trusted lieutenants, possibly only Indra. Abby knowing doesn’t count for much, unless she suddenly relented in her dislike for Lexa and somehow became a source of emotional support. She’s always wondered how Lexa’s dealt with the pressure, whether she found someone to confide in over the years. No one could possibly live with that kind of pressure and not pop without an outlet.

“Okay,” Lexa agrees. She covers the hand on her cheek, and for a moment they’re connected at two warm, intimate points, mingling breath and soaking each other in. She doesn’t say anything else, but Clarke knows she should stay. She returns to her seat next to Lexa and tugs off her own boots, then her socks, which she rolls up neatly and tucks into one boot. Lexa pulls off her gauntlets, unbuckles her torso guard, strips off her rough outer shirt. As each piece drops to the floor she looks more and more tired. Eventually Clarke tugs her up towards the pillows, holding her close, Lexa’s head resting on her arm and their bodies pressed tightly side to side.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, voice soft, nearly a whisper.

“Mmhmm.” She’s right on the verge of sleep.

“Never mind.” Lexa wriggles a little to get more comfortable and is asleep with the ease of someone who’s had to train herself to sleep anywhere at any time. 

Clarke doesn’t think too hard about it. She’s pushed Lexa as far as she’ll go today.

*

_Then_

They ride out in the morning to the forward camp Lexa’s scouts have established close to the border. A scout came in overnight with news that the Ice Nation raided another village, though luckily most of its people had already fled for the safety of the capital. Lexa’s army is assembled and her allies have answered her call—she won’t have quite the force she had to take on the mountain, but Clarke thinks she looks confident. It’s not just a face Lexa is putting on to inspire her warriors. 

They march through midday, not stopping even to eat. The warriors pass around pouches of dried meat and bread, eating as they walk. Clarke is about to round up some food for the Arkers, but she sees Trikru warriors already sharing with them. She can only guess how they feel about seeing the allies they once left behind marching with them once more.

They camp once it gets too dark to ride, lighting only a few fires and posting plenty of guards. Lexa doesn’t even set up her command tent, instead opting for a smaller one that’s quickly raised and just as quickly broken down. Clarke wants to talk to her, ask her about the conflict to come, where she learned to fight a war. Instead she spends the night huddled up in a tent with Monroe, Monty, and Bellamy, thinking darkly that it’s easier to fight a war in summer.

Morning finds everything covered in a fine layer of frost. The horses’ breaths steam up in curls and Clarke can see plenty of shivering bodies, stamping feet and rubbing arms to get warm. She’s glad to be moving again, walking along with the Arkers with her horse’s reins in hand. There were no spare horses for the others, so she walks, and they do her the favor of not pointing out that she has her own Grounder horse when not even some of the warriors are allowed to ride. 

They march, idle chatter to a minimum to conserve energy, camp, shove dinner in their mouths, and sleep hard. They move at first light and stop when it’s dark enough that the horses might get hurt, with no time for much else but to murmur amongst themselves for a few minutes before passing out. Clarke can see the others growing worried the farther they get from Polis, and by extension, Camp Jaha. None of them has realized precisely how far Tree territory reaches. They keep the mountains to their left as they forge northeast, passing scattered villages that grow ever more sparse as the days trudge by. A week’s hard marching has them footsore and in need of a few hearty meals, but with a better understanding of just what _Tree People_ encompasses. Their population isn’t as densely concentrated outside of Polis and Tondc, kept to villages of a hundred or less that vary from small farming communities to groups of tents circled up in a clearing. Still, those villages add up quickly, and by the time they’re in range of the forward camp, Clarke has estimated their population at well into the thousands. 

Lexa drives them hard on their last day of marching before they hit the camp, wanting to reach it before dark. Clarke can tell she’s getting impatient from the tension in her posture as she rides, the way her lieutenants keep a respectfully wary distance. She throws propriety to the wind and mounts her horse, spurring it up to the head of the line. 

Lexa turns her head as she hears the jangle of Clarke’s approach. “Is everything well with your people?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine. I came to see if you were okay,” Clarke says. It’s always so much harder to read Lexa under her mask of war paint but Clarke thinks Lexa is anxious. Who wouldn’t be, riding to war? But she’s also seen Lexa napping the eve of a battle, calmly eating a meal and sharpening her sword as though it’s any other day and not the day she’s going to invade the legendary mountain that eats her people and spits back death.

“I am fine, Clarke. We will reach the forward camp by evening.”

“Oh. Good.” Clarke can’t really think of any more reasons to stay up this far, not when her own people are already uneasy as it is. 

“Ride with me for a while, Clarke,” Lexa says. “I have theories about how best to use your weapons.”

This is really more Bellamy’s area, or one of the guards, but Clarke does as Lexa requests. She tells herself it will keep Lexa calm but it’s as much to distract herself as it is anything else. She explains again about the basics of how guns work, the details of their range and some of the problems she knows they can have like jams and misfires. Lexa absorbs it all with the quiet intensity Clarke has come to associate with her when she’s learning. Lexa likes learning, Clarke thinks. No one who reads as much as she does isn’t a fan of learning. 

Time passes quickly with Lexa asking questions, listening closely. Clarke doesn’t even notice the sun is setting until she glimpses their lengthening shadows on the ground. 

“We are almost there,” says Lexa, seeing Clarke crane her neck to look back at the Arkers. “When you have settled your people, come to my tent. We have a war to plan.” She turns away from Clarke then, making hand motions for a group of riders to detach and scout ahead. 

Clarke drops back to Bellamy and the others, dismounting in a smooth movement and resuming their pace. “We’ll be there soon,” she says.

Monroe nods and tightens up her grip on her rifle. The guards draw together tighter into something resembling a formation. Bellamy starts scanning their surroundings nonstop, his head on a swivel. Monty just keeps close to Bellamy.

One of the scouts reports back that the camp is fine and the army picks up its pace, Lexa briskly leading the way. The forward camp isn’t much yet, just a clearing a couple of bowshots away from a treeline with a line of sharpened stakes pointing towards the border. The refugees from the raided village send up cries of _heda, heda_ as they see Lexa approaching. They aren’t mournful cries. Clarke can see their faces twisted in anger. They’re begging for vengeance, and she hears the now-familiar refrain: _jus drein, jus daun_. 

The army sets up camp with practiced efficiency, Lexa’s command tent going up in the midst of a great bustle to organize quarters and blacksmiths and cooking fires and a dozen other mundane but critical things. 

“I’ll be back,” Clarke says to the Arkers.

“I’m coming with you,” says Bellamy, stepping forward.

Clarke shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“I know that. I can help plan,” he says. 

“So can I. Stay with the weapons.”

Bellamy tenses, nearly rocking up onto the balls of his feet, like he’ll come with Clarke whether she wants it or not. But then he settles back and Clarke nods in thanks and walks to the command tent by herself.

She’s the first one in; the table in the center of the tent doesn’t even have its usual model of the terrain up yet. But there’s the throne Lexa uses when she travels, and more tables with maps and blank parchment, and in the back she can hear rustling that must be Lexa herself. 

Lexa emerges from behind a curtain, adjusting her sword and jacket. “Clarke,” she says, stopping beside her throne.

“You said to come find you when my people were settled,” Clarke says, a bit dumbly. She feels like she got to a party too soon and is now stuck making uncomfortable small talk with the host until the others arrive. 

“Yes,” Lexa says, and beckons her over. Clarke comes willingly, glad that Lexa is choosing to just skip past any awkwardness. Lexa isn’t much for awkward. 

She points at a map laid out on the table; Clarke recognizes Carver’s neat, blocky writing labeling local features. She wonders where Carver is, if she’s out dodging Ice Nation warriors at this very moment. Lexa’s finger lands on the treeline and traces north. “My scouts have confirmed the Ice Nation army is camped just over a mile north of us. They have perhaps twelve hundred warriors. We are two thousand. The Ice Nation knows I still have allies from the coalition. They must know they are outnumbered, and yet still attempt an invasion.” Her tone is troubled, eyes tracing the map over and over.

“You think something else is going on?” Clarke asks.

“Either they are disguising their true numbers, or they have information on my army that I do not. Neither situation is ideal.”

Clarke tries to ponder either situation, but she doesn’t have nearly the background information to even make an educated guess. “What can I do?”

“Tell your warriors to be ready and speak to no one else of this plan. I will strike first before they can put their plan into effect,” says Lexa.

“What, now?” Clarke asks, surprised by how quickly everything is coming together even though they’ve only just arrived.

Lexa nods. “As soon as my army is ready, I will have a scout lead your people and my warriors here, up this pass to the high ground. They must take great care not to be seen.” She traces a route up a large hill with plenty of tree cover. “I will create a distraction here with a frontal assault. When the strike team sees my signal, they will open fire on the Ice Nation’s flank. I have a list of high value targets that should be eliminated if seen.”

Clarke is slightly agog at how quickly Lexa has picked up the modern military speak the Arkers prefer, but she remembers the stacks of books in Lexa’s quarters. “Which targets?”

Lexa pulls a few pieces of paper from underneath the map and spreads them out in a pyramid. Each one contains a detailed hand-drawn portrait. Clarke is momentarily caught up in how good they are, the realism of each portrait. Lexa indicates the two on the bottom, both men. “These two are generals. They were not at Tondc for the assault on the mountain because their queen values them highly. She would not send her best generals to any meeting in my territory unless she was also present.”

Clarke taps on the top portrait, a woman’s face with a lush, cruel mouth and dark eyes and hair. “Who is she?” She knows the answer before Lexa speaks.

“That is Queen Marl of the Ice Nation,” Lexa says, voice flat and eyes dead. “And I will see her dead before this war is over.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Now_

Lexa is gone in the morning. Clarke wakes up slowly at first, hand searching out the warm body she expects to be on the other half of the mattress. She gets only cold sheets, and no knife under Lexa’s pillow. Clarke bolts upright, looking frantically around the room. Lexa’s weapons and armor are gone. She throws off the blanket, hops madly while she tugs on her boots, and runs directly to the courtyard in front of the Ark. She turns in a full circle, searching for any sign at all, only to hear Lexa’s voice from above.

“Clarke.”

Clarke swivels on her heel, neck craning, and sees Lexa atop the entrance to the Ark, dressed and ready for the day. She walks around to the side where a set of rungs for maintenance lead up to the top and climbs her way to Lexa. 

“I have not left, Clarke. I owe you more than that,” says Lexa, giving her a hand over the final few rungs.

Clarke hoists herself up, coming to stand next to Lexa where they can see a good portion of the camp spread out below them. There aren’t too many people in the streets; most are in class or at work and the ones they can see are at the picnic area, eating breakfast. “Why are you up here?” she asks.

“I needed to think. Alone.” Lexa returns to her perch, sitting down with her arms resting on her bent knees.

“Do you want me to…?” Clarke hooks a thumb over her shoulder, but Lexa shakes her head. So she walks over and sits down too, and they spend the next ten or fifteen minutes listening to the sounds of the camp and the surrounding forest. At some point Lexa’s hand creeps closer to hers, then slides on top so she can let their fingers lace together.

“This may not work,” Lexa says. “If it doesn’t, will you let me stay in Nova? It is a lot to ask, I know.”

Clarke squeezes her hand. “Yes. You can stay.”

Lexa’s sighs, the tiniest sound of relief. “Thank you.”

They don’t talk much for the rest of the day, but they don’t need to. What’s needful has been spoken now and they just exist in each other’s company, with a break at lunch with Clarke spends with her mother. She doesn’t know where Lexa goes for that hour and doesn’t ask, only sees that Lexa returns to the camp looking sweaty and pleased with herself and that night there’s venison available for everyone.

Raven arrives in the night, riding up on her own with two full saddlebags packed to bursting with equipment. 

“You want to get settled?” Clarke asks, watching her swing her braced leg over the saddle to dismount. Lexa hangs back, silent and watchful, almost prowling the edges of the torchlight.

“No time like the present,” Raven says, patting her saddlebags.

Lexa nods courteously, but maintains her distance.

“Yeah yeah, I’m saving your life. Let’s wait until after I take a look at this x-ray machine.” Raven slings her saddlebags over one shoulder and starts walking off without them, trusting that her horse will be seen to. 

“I will take the horse,” Lexa murmurs to Clarke. She grabs the reins, walking sedately towards the stables, horse following without a fuss.

Clarke jogs to catch up to Raven, who knows the way on her own. She was, after all, the person who installed a great deal of the equipment in the hospital and she regularly makes trips back for maintenance or simply to “tinker.”

“So, you and the commander, huh,” says Raven. 

Clarke scoffs. “As if you don’t already know from the Nova gossip chain. What’s the big rumor right now? Lexa’s going to tear down the settlement and draft everyone into her army?” 

“Something like that. The other one is you’re leaving Nova to go be queen of the Grounder pounders in Polis.”

Clarke actually snorts a laugh at that, but then sobers when she remembers why the notion is so farfetched. “Lexa isn’t exactly a big believer in marriage,” she says, trying to keep a smile on her face.

Raven’s expression is sympathetic, because she knows what Clarke knows about a heda’s role amongst her people. “I’ll do my best,” she says. 

Abby greets them inside the hospital and leads them over to the diagnostic wing. She gestures to the machine and Raven eyes it up and down with a predatory, evaluating look. “You can both leave now,” she says. Her saddlebags clunk lightly on the floor.

“But—”

Raven waves her hand at Clarke. “Go away. I’ll come get you when I know if it can be done.”

So Clarke and Abby leave, stopping when they’re on the hospital threshold. Abby regards her daughter soberly. “Have you and Lexa talked about what you’ll do if Raven isn’t successful?”

Clarke nods, looking at a spot on the floor to avoid the compassion in her mother’s eyes. “Look, I’m gonna go find her. I don’t like leaving her alone right now.”

“Yeah, I understand.” Abby makes a good-natured shoo-ing motion. 

Clarke finds Lexa still in the stables, grooming Raven’s horse, making soft almost-word noises as she works the curry comb. She leans against a post at the front of the stall. “So Raven says she’ll find us when she’s done to tell us if she can do it or not.”

Lexa hums to indicate she heard, but doesn’t stop grooming the horse. Clarke finds an extra curry comb and stands opposite Lexa to help. It reminds her of cold winter days in the Polis stables with Carver, grooming the horses as they came in, getting them saddled and supplied for riders going out. When they’re done, Lexa runs her hand down the horse’s muzzle a few times, looking calm and at peace. “I would have trained horses, had I not been called to lead,” she says, still stroking the horse.

Clarke has heard precious little of Lexa’s childhood and she holds still, hoping Lexa will say more.

“Horses are loyal. Honest. Once you earn their respect, they will die for you.” The horse is docile under Lexa’s hands, enjoying the attention until she seems to have her fill and leaves the stall, depositing her curry comb neatly in a pile of other combs at the entrance. Clarke’s comb joins hers, and they walk together back to the Ark and their quarters. Clarke sits on her bed, pulling off her boots, glad to be off her feet even though she hasn’t had a particularly long day. Lexa stands by the door, watching her as she toes off her boots too. She pulls her sword off in its scabbard, holding it in both hands.

“Not tired?” Clarke asks.

Lexa shakes her head, catfooting forward. The sword goes on the table and Lexa comes to rest between Clarke’s legs, touching her cheek softly. Clarke is ready when Lexa leans down and kisses her, slow and deep and long. She’s not ready for Lexa to stop, chasing after her when Lexa pulls back. “No matter what happens, I do not regret coming to you,” Lexa whispers. “If I should die, do not mourn me. Know that I was happy. I had something I thought was lost to me forever. My only regret is that I deceived you. You deserved the truth, to decide for yourself.”

Clarke pulls her closer, arms around her waist. “I have decided for myself.” 

Lexa leans in again, the press of her lips soft, but her hands hard and hungry as they grip Clarke’s shoulders. She tilts Clarke’s head back as she delves deeper, tongue sliding against Clarke’s tongue. Her hands smooth along Clarke’s collarbones, her shoulders, down her arms, finding the hem of her shirt. Clarke raises her arms, letting Lexa pull it off. She helps Lexa unstrap her armor, letting it clatter to the floor in a tangle. 

Lexa climbs onto her lap and peels both her shirts off from the bottom. Clarke has never figured out how she can wear black long sleeves in the warm seasons without overheating but she does, leaving her with sharp tan lines at her wrists and neck. She unlaces her bra, then reaches behind Clarke to unhook hers. Clarke pulls their bodies together as tightly as she can, breath coming faster at the sensation of Lexa’s stomach and breasts warm and firm against her. Their kisses grow wetter while Lexa grinds slowly on her lap with Clarke’s hands massaging up the fine muscles in her back. 

Clarke lies back on the bed, pulling Lexa with her, hands sliding down to her waistband and slipping underneath. Lexa groans into her mouth and rubs against her, a slow roll of her hips that sets off a rush of wetness between Clarke’s legs. She reaches for the buttons on Lexa’s pants and—

“HEY. LOVEBIRDS.” Raven bangs on their door. “I’VE GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU.”

Lexa jerks back in surprise, rolling to one side and promptly falling off the bed.

Clarke lets out a laugh and immediately claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Lexa, are you okay?”

Lexa pokes her head up, looking distinctly disgruntled.

“LET’S GO,” Raven says, banging again. 

“We’ll be right there,” Clarke calls through the door, hoping no one else has heard. Knowing her luck, everyone has heard. She looks at Lexa, still on the floor, attempting to reassemble her dignity while she smoothes down her hair. “Ready?”

Lexa mumbles something Clarke doesn’t quite catch, though it sounds like _I was ready for something_. “Let us see what Raven has, or else she will wake the entire camp,” Lexa says.

They pick each other’s shirts up as they dress. Clarke nearly giggles when they exchange shirts but keeps her cool like the grown woman she is. Once they’re put together, Clarke stops Lexa with a hand at her waist. She uses the other to tuck some hair behind Lexa’s ear, then presses a kiss to her cheek. “No matter what happens.”

“No matter what happens,” Lexa repeats. Her eyes are clear. They’re both ready.

*

_Then_

“She wants to _assassinate_ the Ice Queen?” Monroe hisses when Clarke informs them of Lexa’s plan. They’re standing in the tent set up for the Arkers and Clarke has the map Lexa gave her and the target pictures spread out for them. The entrance flap is firmly tied and two guards keep watch from inside, making sure no shadows linger long enough to become eavesdroppers.

“Not really,” Clarke says weakly. “Just if any of you see her, then take the shot.”

“These aren’t sniper rifles,” says one of the guards, patting his weapon. “The effective range is only about four hundred yards.”

“That’s a lot farther than the range of their bows and arrows,” Clarke points out. “And anyway taking her out isn’t the primary mission. Our job is to harass their flank and put a dent in their numbers. If we manage to take out enough of them, this war could be over in a day.”

“It’s not bad,” the guard grudgingly acknowledges. He studies the map, eyes flickering over key points. “They know this land better than we do. I’m in.”

Some of the other guards murmur their assent, then Bellamy, then Monroe. Clarke looks at Monty. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want, Monty. You can help me here with the wounded.”

“Okay,” he says, not bothering to hide his relief. After the mountain, they have nothing to prove to one another. Clarke thinks Monty might have had his fill of killing for a long, long time. 

With the Arkers on board, all that’s left is to coordinate with Lexa’s forces and wait for her signal. Sleep that night is fitful, so close to the front. They can hear sounds all night long: armorers, horses shifting, guards on watch. Clarke wishes she were with Lexa in her tent, if only for the luxury of spreading out while she sleeps. This kind of reminds her of huddling up in the dropship, complete with someone’s loud and indefatigable snores. She drops off eventually and wakes up feeling as though she hardly got any sleep at all. It’s still dark, but with that particular mood of early morning just before the light turns dusky, and she can hear errant chirps from birds here and there.

“It’s time,” says an inky figure at the entrance to their tent. Clarke recognizes the shape; of course it’s Indra, one of the only people Lexa would trust with a secret mission like this.

Clarke won’t be going with the strike team, but she wants to see her people off, so she sits up, blearily rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and huddles with the Arkers inside their tent while they adjust gear and do a weapons check. It’s a tight fit but Indra has a pack of warriors bundled in there too, the ones who trained on their rifles, along with their scout. Clarke’s face lights up. “Carver!” 

Carver grins at her. “We meet again, Clarke Kom Skaikru.”

“You have your orders,” Indra says, mostly for her warriors, but also for Carver, who stops smiling instantly.

Clarke looks at all her people in turn with Bellamy last, understanding flitting between them to stay safe and keep the others safe. She touches Carver on the shoulder. “Good luck out there,” she says.

“Good hunting to us all,” Carver says. Her tread is light over the frozen ground as she leads the group away, disappearing into the treeline with ease. The others Clarke can see for a moment more, and then they’re nothing but a trembling branch that soon stills, leaving the forest tranquil once more.

“Come, I will show you where the healers are gathering,” says Indra. She deposits Clarke and Monty at a large tent near the rear end of camp. Other healers are already there, rolling up bandages, getting tools lined up, medicinal pouches organized. The rest of the camp stirs as sunrise approaches and soon there’s a steady stream of warriors leaving their tents behind, forming up at the front. Clarke stands outside the medical tent, squinting across camp to try and get a glimpse of Lexa, but it’s still too dark to properly make out much but vague shapes.

The sky begins to lighten, black to indigo, and Clarke realizes Lexa’s army will have the sun at their backs for this opening salvo. She suddenly has the urge to go find her people, to grab a gun and help them flank the Ice Nation army or join Lexa in the front ranks. But she’s of far more value staying with the healers. 

There’s no blaring horn, no signal that could alert the Ice Nation that Lexa is coming. Just the immense rustling and jangling of the entire army suddenly setting out, leaving behind a token force of warriors at the camp. The healers march at the rear, spread out amongst the divisions. Monty is off to her left, clutching his enormous bag of bandages with instructions to stay close to her and keep the supplies coming. They’ll hold back at a slight distance until the field is clear, then enter for triage. Clarke keeps touching her bag of supplies, as though reassuring herself that she packed it with everything. The trees start to thin, and she can make out another clearing up ahead and smell the smoke of multiple wood fires. 

There’s some kind of commotion at the front, then Clarke sees the cavalry take off in a ragged line. Still no horns, no battle cries. It’s eerie how quietly the war begins. Arrows arc overhead, firing over the charging cavalry line and plunging to earth ahead of them. Then the horses crash into the Ice Nation camp, trampling sleeping warriors, cutting down surprised guards as they ride. Clarke imagines she can see a flash of ochre amidst the sea of black and metal but there’s no way to be sure with so many bodies weaving in and out of her vision.

The ground troops follow in the wake of the cavalry, killing anyone left alive from the charge. The horses are slowing, gradually encountering resistance as the Ice Nation camp awakens to the danger. The horns sound at last and the infantry surge to catch up to the skirmish line. Clarke can see the almost rhythmic flashing of swords as the cavalry riders cut down the warriors swarming around them. 

And then she hears the first sharp pop of a rifle, followed by the rest of the strike team opening fire. The skirmish line surges forward as the Ice Nation army tries to turn to face this new threat. The rifle fire is coming in controlled single-round bursts, the strike team taking their time and selecting their targets. The guards had drilled and drilled into the Trikru warriors how quickly they could empty a magazine and how limited their supplies were, mountain notwithstanding; it sounds like they took it to heart.

Still, the rifle sounds eventually slow down. They’re growing more selective as their ammunition dwindles. Clarke wonders if they’ve spotted the generals or the queen. 

One of the healers motions, about to start wading into the battlefield to start helping the wounded. Then a savage cry goes up from somewhere within the ranks ahead several hundred yards away. It looks almost like the army is contracting in on itself. More horns start calling, almost panicked in their urgency. Clarke grabs the nearest healer, a gruff man who reminds her of Nyko. “What’s happening?” she asks. He pulls away from her, squinting at the back of the army. 

Clarke can see part of the army devolving into chaos, pushing sideways instead of forward, clusters of warriors fragmenting off as they attempt to pull off their own flanking maneuver. Realization dawns, sudden and horrible. “They’re turning on each other,” she says. She looks around frantically for Monty, who is still close.

“They would not—” The healer makes a wet gurgling sound, cut off mid-sentence by an arrow in his chest. Clarke swallows a scream and takes off on pure instinct, running towards the other healers, waving one arm to get their attention and using the other to drag Monty along with her.

“Run! _Run!_ ” she bellows, not stopping to look behind her, not daring to do anything but sprint full speed towards the nearest cover. She wishes now she’d thought to ask for extra radios so she could at least call Bellamy and warn him. What if there are traitors in the strike team? What if the gunfire from earlier wasn’t what she thought it was? They were all warriors handpicked by Indra; she has to believe they’re loyal. They were firing on the Ice Nation army. They’ll be fine. Her job right now, moment by moment, is simply to survive.

The healers are caught between staring at her and at the devolving situation in the distance. “Run!” she shouts again, Monty echoing her. She doesn’t have the breath to get out full sentences. “Betrayed! Run! Cover!”

Some of them take off without asking questions, hearing the genuine fear and panic in Clarke’s voice. Another one, slow to react, doesn’t see the arrows until it’s too late. They rain down on him, pincushioning him to the ground. Clarke feels something whiz past her arm, but doesn’t stop running. She angles for a clump of thick-trunked trees, dodging behind the first one and trying to catch her breath. Monty slides in next to her, pressed flat to the ground. The other healers come slipping and dodging, joining her behind the trees. “We need to warn the commander,” she pants, looking around for ways to get back to the main body of the army. 

“We’ll die the moment we leave the trees,” says Monty. 

A healer pokes his head out, chancing a glimpse of their pursuers. A band of warriors is encroaching on their position with arrows nocked. “Lekkru,” he growls. 

Clarke also takes a peek, counting numbers and gauging the odds of being able to get to the relative safety of the army. “Who?”

“The Lake People,” he says. “They have betrayed us.”

“Any ideas for how to get away from them?” Clarke asks. 

The healer just grunts and starts rooting around on the ground. He stands up with a large rock in his fist. “Take as many of them with us as we can.”

Clarke’s mind races, trying to absorb every detail, trying to make connections, trying to find a way to survive. It’s just six or seven unarmed healers hiding behind some trees while two dozen armed warriors close in on them. She reaches out and snaps off a fairly thick tree branch, if only to have something solid in her hands. Monty does the same, hefting his branch a few times even though he’s wide-eyed with fear. “Can we signal the army somehow? Does anyone have a horn?” he asks.

The answering look from the healer, part disgust-part sorrow, is all the answer Clarke needs. 

She looks around again, aware that they have barely a minute before they’ll be overwhelmed. “What about a fire? Anyone?” 

One of the healers rummages in his bag and comes up with flint and tinder. Clarke falls to her knees, trying to gather up any brush she can find. Dead leaves are plentiful on the ground and she and Monty push them into a pile. The healer gets down next to her, striking his flint over and over until finally the leaves catch. Clarke snaps twigs off her branch, adding them to the fire, fanning the flames as soon as they’re large enough to take it. The others have caught on and are feeding the flames too; it’s possibly the fastest fire built in history and Clarke has just enough time to dip a fresh branch in the flames when they hear the crunch of the Lekkru warriors finally reaching their grove of trees. 

A healer goes down with an arrow in his chest. Clarke screams, as much from anger as from fear, and closes distance with the nearest warrior before he can get off the shot, swinging her flaming branch and catching him by surprise. The other healers are charging too, taking the Lekkru band off guard. For a few glorious moments they’re on the offensive, knocking down one, two, three warriors. Then the warriors recover, drawing swords for close-in work. A blade bites into Clarke’s branch, then twists sharply, forcing the branch out of her grip. 

She’s still not ready to die; she lets out a bloodcurdling cry she never knew lived inside of her and runs straight at the warrior who took her branch. She tackles him low, shoulder driving into his solar plexus, and bears him down to the ground. She can feel the wind go out of him and takes advantage of the moment to grab his head by the hair and bash it down against the hard ground. She does it once more time, knocking him out cold, and snatches up his sword. It’s a heavy, unbalanced beast of a thing, roughly beaten metal with plenty of chipped edges, and she swings it right into the arm of the next Lekkru warrior. It sinks in deep and when she yanks it out, a spurt of blood follows. 

She’s swinging again, no technique, all raw strength, but another warrior gets his sword up, blocking her and shoving her away. He advances on her, sword hammering down blows that she’s just barely fending off until a hard one knocks her off her feet. Somehow she keeps her grip on the sword, managing to get it up to block the killing stroke. The impact is enough to jar it out of her numbing hands. She scrambles backwards on her hands and feet, thinking to gain some space and run. At least she has a chance if she runs.

She scoots into the legs of another Lekkru warrior. 

Time slows. 

He raises his sword, blade a dark shadow passing through the rising sun. 

She’s groping for anything at hand she can use as a weapon, twisting instinctively out of the way. 

For as long as she lives, she’ll never forget the image of what comes next: a horse leaping across her field of vision, so close she can feel the wind of its passage, notice every sinewy muscle and vein bulging under a sheen of sweat. Lexa astride, sword curving, slicing along the Lekkru warrior’s back from shoulder to shoulder. Her mouth is open in a roar, hair flying behind her, the sides of her horse splashed with blood. 

Time snaps into the proper gear; sounds and smells come flooding back in. The Lekkru warrior cries out, collapsing forward onto Clarke as Lexa dashes on, slashing at another warrior, opening his face down to the bone. Clarke pushes his body off while more horses thunder all around her, charging into the Lekkru. Clarke scrambles to her feet, trying to orient herself. Monty is getting up too, covering his head and flinching as a sword whistles entirely too close. Lexa is about a hundred feet away, sharply guiding her horse into a turn, waving her sword aloft while she shouts commands to her warriors. The Lekkru are mostly dead or dying or running away. The grove of trees has caught fire quite well, sending up a high column of white smoke. Lexa quickly canters the horse back to the healers.

“Clarke, are you hurt?” she asks urgently, checking her horse’s reins one-handed. 

Clarke stares up at her, all aglow with morning light, warm and alive against the cold grey backdrop of winter. Her war mask can’t hide the worry in her eyes and she still holds her sword out and away from her body, uncaring as it drips gore. The adrenaline is making Clarke shaky and she knows as soon as her mind catches up with her body she’ll probably have a little private freakout about almost dying again. “I’m fine,” she says in as steady a voice as she can manage.

It’s all Lexa needs to hear before she spurs her horse, riding off as fast as she came, followed by her riders in a bass cacophany of hooves churning up the earth. Clarke clutches her chest, heart hammering so hard she can feel it beating against her ribs. She suddenly realizes she still has her healer’s bag slung around her torso and starts walking back to the battlefield. This war isn’t over yet.

*

_Now_

“It’ll work,” Raven says. She pats the machine in question. “I can modify this baby to deliver a targeted dose of very high intensity x-rays. I’ll need to scavenge here and there, but it’s doable.”

Abby and Clarke both turn to Lexa, who is eyeing the machine with some apprehension. “How long will it take?” she asks.

Raven shrugs. “Two days, maybe three if I want to be thorough testing it.”

“Be thorough,” Clarke says.

Raven rolls her eyes. “When am I anything but thorough?” She cups one hand around her ear, the other wiggling her fingers in a _gimme_ gesture. “Now what’s that I hear?”

“Thank you, Raven,” Clarke says, only exaggerating a little bit.

“I thank you, Raven Kom Skaikru,” Lexa says, as though at a formal diplomatic function. 

Raven gives away her slight discomfort with the way her gaze dips down towards the floor. “Yeah yeah. Okay, I just wanted to tell you the good news. Resume boinking.”

Clarke nearly chokes on nothing while Abby’s eyes go wide. Lexa’s look is neutral and could be amused or disapproving. Possibly both. “Let’s, uh, let’s go to bed,” Clarke says.

“I think we all need some sleep,” Abby mutters, cutting her eyes sideways at Raven before leaving.

The next three days go by at an agonizing crawl. Lexa sends messengers to Polis, keeping an eye on how her people are doing without her and making sure her short-term instructions are being carried out. Clarke radios back and forth with Nova to see that someone takes over her classes. They take long walks through the forest, pointing out animals to each other and sitting in companionable silence while Clarke sketches and Lexa reads whatever book she managed to scavenge that day. Abby has Lexa come in for imaging so they can target the radiation in the right spot.

The night that Raven announces the machine is ready to go, they all sip a little too much of the fermented honey wine that Monty likes to brew and Clarke and Lexa fall into bed laughing, kissing each other and rolling around on the mattress. Their clothes get discarded haphazardly in no particular order, leaving Clarke with no pants and Lexa in her underwear. Clarke wonders why it feels so special and new and realizes they’ve never just had fun like this. There’s always been something hanging over them—guilt, war, duty. 

She nips at Lexa’s neck, enjoying the way Lexa shudders against her. Lexa retaliates in kind, pushing off the bed so she can bring her head level with Clarke’s thighs and deliver a bite to the soft inner flesh there. Clarke jumps and Lexa gives her a wide, full-blown grin, a rare animal indeed. Clarke thinks the last time she saw it was at the very first harvest festival.

They take their time, working each other up, letting their hands and mouths wander, pausing to laugh at each other. Clarke’s orgasm comes in slow waves, rolling through her body and leaving her warm and satisfied. Lexa is the same, but more intense, gasping out her release into Clarke’s shoulder for long, long minutes with Clarke’s hand between her legs. 

In the morning they’re quiet, but they move in tandem as they get dressed, brushing each other with little touches. They leave the Ark an hour after sunrise, entering the hospital and going directly to the diagnostic wing, where Raven is waiting with a cup of tea in her hands. “She’s all ready,” says Raven, looking pleased with herself despite the early hour. 

Lexa goes in first, finding Abby reading over her notes. There are several open panels and exposed wires from Raven’s patch job and the machine is clearly the lovechild of several different beasts, but Raven said it would work and that’s all Clarke needs to hear. Abby pats the bed, where she’s laid a plain blue gown. “Go ahead and change. I’ll be back in a minute to talk you through the procedure.”

She and Clarke go outside to give Lexa some privacy, waiting in silence until Lexa opens the door again. Clarke thinks she looks absurd in the gown; it’s possible Lexa hasn’t worn any colors but black and a splash of ochre since she became heda. “You want me to stay?” she asks.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Abby says. “About fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be out here, then,” Clarke says. She and Raven wander over to a little waiting area with plain wooden chairs covered with handmade cushions Clarke recognizes from one of the artisans in Nova. Raven continues sipping her tea.

“Hanging in there?” she asks at last.

Clarke tries to put on a casual face. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You guys talked about what’s gonna happen after this?”

Clarke glances back at the hallway leading to the treatment room. Everyone is so interested in their _after_ but all Clarke can focus on today is _now_. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Raven’s eyebrow quirks over the edge of her cup. “Sort of?”

“If it works, she’ll have to go back to Polis. She has responsibilities.”

“Last I checked, having a job doesn’t mean you can’t have a relationship.” 

Clarke folds her arms. “It’s not that simple.”

“Oh yeah, you’re both leaders, blah blah blah.” Raven makes a talking motion with one hand. 

Clarke chooses to be amused instead of mad; they both know Raven is one of the few people who can get away with this level of outright mockery. “Yeah, just that little thing where we’re responsible for a bunch of people and can’t really make too many personal choices.”

“What is the point of making decisions that change people’s lives if you lose touch with what makes those lives matter in the first place?” Raven asks, sounding almost philosophical. She leans back in her chair, ostensibly relaxing but with a hint of challenge in her posture.

“I—” Clarke’s shuts her mouth as Raven’s words sink in. “I’m not out of touch,” she finishes, trying not to sound sulky.

“You’re lonely.” Raven nearly laughs at the consternation on Clarke’s face. “I’m sorry, but it’s obvious.” 

“How obvious?” Clarke demands.

“ _Obvious_ ,” Raven says slowly. “Let me guess, Lexa is being weird about it because her duty always comes first.”

“In one,” says Clarke, sighing. She leans over, resting her elbows on her knees, wishing she could just put her head down for a bit and not worry. 

Raven makes a sound of mingled disgust and sympathy. “Well, the way I see it, she’s just afraid.”

Clarke laughs humorlessly. “Sure, I’ll call her a coward. That’ll go well.”

“It might, you never know.” Raven finishes off the last of her tea. “Look, you guys have probably the craziest baggage possible to bring to a relationship, but do you really think that situation is going to repeat itself? As if Lexa could screw us over without screwing herself over. We’re too mixed up with each other now.” She pushes off from her chair, adjusting her brace on her leg. “Stop being lonely. It’s a real fucking bummer.” And then she saunters off, as smug as though she’d done far more than assemble a radiation therapy machine from parts.


	10. Chapter 10

_Then_

Later, Clarke will hear the story told and retold until it passes into legend: how Heda Lexa pushed the Ice Nation back from the border despite the betrayal of her allies the Lake People. How she rallied her troops and used her cavalry to harry the Lekkru, keeping them cut off from the Ice Nation army. How she sent the main thrust of her infantry right into the Ice Nation’s heart while turning the weapons of the mountain on her enemies, shredding their flank and leaving not enough warriors to push back a charge. How her faithful horse, riddled with arrows, carried her with its last breath to the warriors guarding their queen.

How she swept them aside and struck Queen Marl’s head from her shoulders with one mighty blow, holding it up by the hair and bellowing for all to kneel or suffer the same fate as the blood of her enemy coursed down her arm.

“That is _not_ how it happened,” says Lexa, attempting to get up from her bed.

Clarke pushes her back down easily. She’s weak from exertion and blood loss so her struggle is more perfunctory than anything. “Tell me what you want and I’ll go get it for you,” Clarke says.

Clarke would say Lexa is pouting, except heda absolutely does not pout. “I am thirsty,” she says after a long moment, no doubt weighing her own discomfort against her dignity.

So Clarke gets up and brings the water pitcher and cups over and puts them by Lexa’s bedside, filling one cup and making sure Lexa’s grip is firm before letting go of it. 

Lexa drinks deeply, sighs in relief, and leaves the empty cup on the bedside stand. She lies back without having to be told. 

“You know no one will accept the actual version of events now that this story has spread, right?” Clarke asks. Privately she’s amused that it’s already taken on such a life of its own, no matter how much Lexa protests. Let the people have their story, their legend. It solidifies Lexa’s rule and keeps the Ice Nation docile. 

Lexa grumbles something unintelligible and sinks further into bed, wanting to return to her duties but unable with Clarke hovering over her with the fierceness of a hungry watchdog. Even if her lieutenants didn’t have things well in hand, Clarke would be forcing her to stay in bed. True, she’d personally slain Queen Marl, but it wasn’t just her horse who endured a dozen wounds to get her there. She took a phalanx of mounted warriors on a wild charge deep through the Ice Nation’s lines, heedless of the possibility that they might get cut off from the main army. It’s probably the most foolish thing Clarke has ever known Lexa to do, but it worked. 

Indra told her the true story as she cleaned and stitched Lexa’s wounds: Lexa fought her way to the queen, who watched her war from the rear of her weakened army. Half her cavalry was on foot, horses lost in the fighting. Lexa herself was still mounted, but she left her horse behind as she stalked towards Marl, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Marl and Lexa’s guards skirmished for a few minutes with Lexa driving inexorably forward, Marl trying to retreat until there was nowhere to run, until Lexa was left facing Marl while their armies raged around them. 

Marl was mid-surrender when Lexa ran her through with her sword. She went to the very hilt, bringing them body to body, hissing something in her ear that no one else heard. Clarke knows it was a message on behalf of Costia. 

And then the warriors around Marl surrendered, throwing down their weapons, seemingly glad to be done with a war not of their choosing. 

So now Lexa’s lieutenants are making sure the Ice Nation warriors are disarmed and set to building funeral pyres while the healers triage the wounded. Clarke has been on her feet nonstop, running from one injured warrior to the next with Monty trailing after her with his enormous but quickly dwindling bag of supplies. She only stopped when Indra corralled her and pushed her unceremoniously towards Lexa’s tent, which was carried up from the rear along with the rest of the supplies. Clarke found Lexa dripping blood and scowling at a terrified young healer. “Take care of this,” Indra said, and sent the poor healer on his way. 

Lexa is resting now—reluctantly, grudgingly, but resting. “If I must rest, then you should also,” she says.

“There’s more wounded I need to look after,” says Clarke, already packing up her supplies. 

“This is the second time you have tended to me. I am grateful.”

Clarke pauses in the middle of winding up an unused bandage. Lexa had taken a fair bit of tending; her armor had saved her from certain death, but there are deep cuts on her arms, legs, back, stomach, even a gash across her forehead that is probably going to leave an interesting scar. Clarke’s hands are still slightly cramped from an hour of meticulous, careful stitching. “I need you alive,” she says, trying to make a joke of it.

A sigh comes from the bed, almost too quiet to be heard, but Clarke can see the way Lexa’s chest deflates. “I will go to the other leaders and plead your case for the mountain. But I cannot make the decision for them. We have all suffered under its oppression.”

“I didn’t mean…” Clarke clutches her bandages, fingers sinking into their softness. It certainly wasn’t what she meant, but it’s what she wants. But she also wants Lexa to know her care doesn’t come with a price tag. 

Lexa lets her off the hook. “I know.”

Clarke takes her time packing up the rest of her things, not wanting Lexa to think she’s in a hurry to leave now that she has what she wants. “What will you do with the Ice Nation army?” she asks.

“Show them that I am not Marl.” Her voice is growing fainter, her eyes drooping. She’s on the verge of passing out. Clarke waits for it—and Lexa’s eyes shut completely in just a few seconds. 

Outside the tent, Indra is waiting for her. “Will you return to your people now?” she asks, watching Clarke with her usual disapproving expression.

Clarke hasn’t really thought about it. She still doesn’t feel entirely comfortable around her own people and Polis has started to feel like it could be—not home, not quite. But certainly a place of comfort and familiarity, where she has friends and a warm bed and knows the streets and buildings. She remembers too the way her mother stared at her with hungry eyes in Camp Jaha, wanting nothing more than to be with her daughter again. “I’m not sure,” she says. “There’s still things I need to discuss with Lexa.”

“The commander would be better served if you were with your own people. Surely they must need you.”

Clarke gives Indra a hard look. “Are you asking me to leave Polis?”

“You cloud her judgment. She should have destroyed the mountain long ago. Yet it stands, and all because of you.”

“That mountain could be our best hope of rebuilding human society,” Clarke says. She shifts her bag, holding it in front of her like a shield.

“Our society does not need rebuilding,” Indra hisses. “Just because we do not live the way you do, we are not broken.”

“Well as far as I can tell, you spend most of your time either killing each other or worrying that someone’s going to kill you, so excuse me for hoping for better,” says Clarke. She half expects Indra to haul off and punch her.

“If you do not understand the commander’s vision for her people by now, then you have truly learned nothing,” Indra says with no small amount of disgust. She marches off before Clarke can respond, already barking orders at her warriors and leaving Clarke with an unshakeable sense of guilt.

*

_Now_

Clarke lets her conversation with Raven simmer for a few days. In that time Abby carefully monitors Lexa’s progress and Raven stays on site in case the radiation machine needs adjustment or repair. Lexa is mostly quiet, preferring to stay close to Clarke when she’s not in therapy or going over her results with Abby. They don’t talk about the results; it’s too soon anyway.

Clarke radios back and forth with Nova, and Lexa sends messengers to Polis through the small guard detail that follows her at a distance. They’re both stuck at Camp Jaha for the next three weeks while the radiation therapy takes hold and they both have continuing instructions for how things are to be handled in their absences. 

Clarke shows Lexa the inside of the Ark, pointing out all the things she remembers from her childhood. Most of it has been shut down and locked off, either deemed structurally unsound or simply unnecessary to their much-reduced population. The kids from Nova take a twice-yearly field trip to the Ark to learn about their history and tour the medical school. Clarke’s tried and tried to get her mom to settle permanently in Nova, but she remains with the Ark, and so do a lot of the older Sky People. As much as they were all told their destiny was to one day return to the Earth, the Ark was their reality, their comfort, their home. Nova is for the young, those who will live far more of their lives on Earth than they did in space.

They return to the woods often, sometimes to hunt, though Clarke is a middling hunter at best. She mostly follows as quietly as possible in Lexa’s footsteps with an arrow nocked and watches her bring down rabbits or game birds. 

After a week, Lexa misses. The arrow whistles harmlessly into some bushes and her target, a small deer, takes off running. Lexa lowers her bow looking frustrated, shoulders slumping ever so slightly. 

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks.

Lexa starts walking towards the spot where her arrow disappeared. “I am fine.”

Clarke waits patiently for Lexa to root around in the underbrush and come back, by now used to letting her have a bit of space when she’s frustrated and then gently probing for the truth. “If you’re starting to feel tired from the treatments, you should take it easy.”

“Your mother said physical activity was fine. I would prefer to be outdoors as much as possible while I am still able,” Lexa says, examining the arrowhead.

“Lexa…”

She starts walking away, slow enough for Clarke to catch up, but fast enough to indicate she doesn’t want to talk. Clarke is only letting her get away with it because of the radiation therapy and they both know it. At dinner Lexa gives Clarke half of her own portion and Clarke doesn’t ask her if it’s because she’s nauseous.

Lexa’s energy waxes and wanes as the days stretch on. Some days she’ll want to walk or ride, and some days she stays close to their room, alternately napping or listening to Clarke read out loud. She develops a patch of irritated skin where the radiation is targeted and Clarke spends an entire day gathering enough plants for a salve. Her appetite begins fading, and Clarke scours Jaha’s supplies for ways to make different bland yet nutritious meals. 

Raven leaves for Nova after the first week, satisfied that the machine won’t suddenly break down, but promises to send back one of the techs she’s been training. 

Abby watches Clarke almost as carefully as she does Lexa, but does her daughter the favor of not badgering her about her feelings. Clarke is grateful for it, until one day Lexa is grumpy and wanting solitude and Clarke has nothing to do but take herself over to her mother’s office, slumped in one of the chairs just like she used to do as a child, waiting for Abby on days she was running late at work.

“Are you getting enough sleep?” Abby asks, eyes flicking over Clarke with the practiced diagnostic gaze of a physician. 

“Lexa sleeps a lot,” Clarke says.

“I was asking about you.”

Clarke shrugs. “I worry a lot.”

Her mom’s face grows very serious, the way it would when she was about to ask teenaged Clarke if she was practicing safe sex or to make sure she wasn’t hanging out with the wrong crowd. “It’s important that you take care of yourself too. You’re no good to Lexa if you’re exhausted all the time.”

“Don’t try to use Lexa against me like that,” Clarke says, but without any real bite. She’s just tired, unable to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, constantly jerking awake and checking on Lexa on the other side of the bed. Her rational brain knows that Lexa won’t just suddenly expire in the middle of the night, but her subconscious is fearful and terrified. 

“I’m not. Lexa is my patient, and she needs you.”

Clarke isn’t quite sure of what she’s hearing. “Don’t tell me you actually like her now.”

Abby sighs, shifting from doctor to mother. “You know I’ll always have my reservations about Lexa. But it’s not like I can tell you stay away from her. And after all this time…” Her mouth and eyes soften into something passing fond. “She genuinely cares about you. You seem happy when you’re with her. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

Clarke blinks back sudden tears. “I know. And I am happy when I’m with her.” 

They don’t say much else to each other but a new level of understanding exists between them now, and Clarke leaves the office feeling loved and more connected with her mom than she has in a long time. Back in her quarters, Lexa is in a conciliatory mood, putting aside her book as Clarke enters.

“Just because I was feeling ill, I should not have snapped at you,” she apologizes.

Clarke just climbs into bed and wraps herself around Lexa from behind, exhaling into her neck and stroking her hip, down to her thigh. “We’re both gonna get cranky with each other before this thing is over,” Clarke says. “It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving you.”

Lexa goes still in her arms. “Clarke…”

“I told you we’d talk about it after your treatment was over and we will. I’m just not going to wait until then to say what I feel. You don’t have to say anything back. Okay?”

Lexa’s body slumps, melts, molds to Clarke’s. “Yes. Thank you.”

“For what?”

Lexa pulls Clarke’s hand from her thigh, up to her lips, and presses a kiss against the palm. “For letting me wait.”

*

_Then_

Lexa’s army remains encamped at the border for another week, dispersing the Ice Nation and Lake People warriors. Clarke watches in grim silence as Lexa and the other tribal leaders summarily execute Marl’s high-ranking officers, leaving behind the younger warriors who haven’t spent years with Marl’s voice in their ear, whispering of expansion and conquest. Most of them want to be left alone to live in peace, perhaps to trade for the crops they can’t easily grow in the cold north. The Lake People’s leaders are dealt with harshly for their betrayal, but the bulk of their forces are also allowed to go home.

At the first execution Lexa had glanced sideways at the Arkers, as if expecting resistance, but Clarke knows none of them is shocked in the least. No one is in a position to be making a moral objection here. The Ice Nation would have wiped Camp Jaha from the map if left unchecked.

Lexa gets stronger with each passing day until at the end of the week, Clarke finds her scratching at her stitches and has to stop herself from a burst of scolding. “Leave those alone,” she says, walking into Lexa’s tent to the curtained off area where she sleeps. 

Lexa narrows her eyes at Clarke but does as she says, hand dropping away from her upper arm. She’s just in her undershirt now, preparing for bed. It’s become their ritual for Clarke to check on Lexa one last time before she goes to sleep with the other Sky People.

“I’ll have to take these out in a week anyway,” Clarke says, leaning over to examine the cut closely. 

“Stay at Camp Jaha. I will take care of it myself,” Lexa says, waving Clarke away. 

Clarke frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Will you not return to Jaha with the Sky People when we leave?” Lexa asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“I…” Clarke has known this decision was approaching but she hasn’t forced herself to think seriously about it, rationalizing that she was too busy. But her duties as a healer have tapered off and she’s not needed urgently anymore. She mostly just changes bandages and makes sure infection doesn’t set in. The Trikru healers are more than capable of doing that. She’s been avoiding things like a champ.

“You have been away from your people for a long time,” Lexa says without recrimination. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to go back,” Clarke admits. She sits down next to Lexa on the bed, as usual unable to stop herself from enjoying sinking into the soft pile of furs beneath her. “They’re all still so…strange around me. Like they think I’ll break if they say the wrong thing.”

“Then show them you will not break.” Lexa looks down at her lap, hands resting on her thighs. “If they do not see the strength in you, then they are blind.”

Clarke leans to her right a little, just enough for the barest brush of shoulders, but more than enough to let Lexa know Clarke is grateful. “What if I wanted to go back with you instead?”

Lexa’s fingertips curl, pressing into her thighs, but she otherwise remains still. “You are always welcome in Polis, Clarke.”

Clarke watches her hands, slim and tapering and calloused. She remembers how they were caked in blood and dirt after the battle, steady despite all her injuries. How they flashed through the sunrise, carving out death as they went, the most welcome sight Clarke has ever seen in her short but violent life. “I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”

Lexa looks away. “No thanks are necessary.”

“Yes they are,” Clarke insists. “You didn’t have to come back for me.”

“Yes I did,” Lexa says without thinking. Her hands flex again and she inhales sharply. “You and the other healers—you are all invaluable.”

Clarke gives up on pretense and just lets her hand drop on top of Lexa’s. She doesn’t quite have the words, so she squeezes Lexa’s hand in gratitude. “I think you’re invaluable too.” The sit together and Clarke holds Lexa’s hand loosely beneath hers and feels her body yearn towards something she isn’t sure she can define. Her mind is made up; she’ll return to Polis with Lexa.

*

_Now_

Three weeks and change in, Lexa has started losing weight, just enough to be noticeable. Her cheekbones have a slight sharpness about them and she walks with careful precision, like someone who knows exactly how much effort it takes to get back up from the ground. Her hair starts to fall out in little clumps around the treatment site and one night Lexa asks Clarke to shave it off on that side. Clarke digs up an old pair of clippers and manages a rather fashionable side cut that looks intentional and not the consequence of radiation therapy. 

“You look like such a yongona now,” Clarke teases, earning her a faint wisp of a smile.

The last few days Lexa is too tired to do much but take a short morning walk, go to therapy, then return to their quarters and nap for most of the day. She wakes up long enough to eat, gamely going through her food even when she isn’t hungry, then falls asleep again with Clarke rubbing salve into the irritated skin. She doesn’t complain much, but she doesn’t have to when she’s so plainly weary.

On the last day of therapy they sit in Abby’s office, waiting for her to return with Lexa’s brain scans. Lexa is slumped in her chair—not the studied slouch she sometimes employs on her throne, nor the casual dropoff in posture when it’s just her and Clarke. She’s tired, so tired she can’t even mask it anymore, and that has Clarke inwardly fretting. She wants to hold Lexa’s hand, rub soothing patterns up and down her arm, but there’s only so much coddling she can take. Letting Clarke bring her food and treat her wounds and read to her is bad enough. 

Abby knocks and walks in, holding her tablet balanced on one hand. She doesn’t beat around the bush for a second, instead breaking into a smile. “It worked.”

Lexa seems to straighten up in her chair, eyes growing brighter in their bruised sockets. “So now you operate.”

Abby dips her chin in a nod. “Now we operate.”

“Ready?” Lexa asks Clarke.

“I should be asking you that,” Clarke says.

“I was ready to die. This is easy,” Lexa says, leavening the morbidity with a wry eyebrow. 

“First thing in the morning,” Abby says. She goes to her desk and puts down her tablet, exchanging it for a piece of paper. “Here’s your pre-surgery instructions. Now get out of here, I have a surgery to prep for.”

Clarke takes the paper and stands up, close enough to Lexa that she can grab Clarke’s arm if she needs to, but not hovering over her with any assumptions. Lexa stands up on her own and follows Clarke, her steps steady enough. She’s breathing harder by the time they get back, but still not holding on to Clarke, and she lowers herself into bed under her own steam. There’s spots of color in her cheeks and she looks—not optimistic. But focused. Determined. Not like someone resigned to only having a little bit of time left in the world.

She gestures for Clarke to come join her and Clarke sits carefully, not jostling her too much. She tucks her chin down onto Lexa’s shoulder and grabs her right hand, twining their fingers together. “This time tomorrow, everything will be different.”

“I will be different,” Lexa says, voice distant. She contemplates her hand, merged with Clarke’s, eyes a little glassy as her mind wanders. Eventually she returns to the present with a squeeze and pins her gaze to Clarke’s face. “If it is not a success, return my body to the guards who came with me. They will know what to do.”

“Hey.” Clarke squeezes back, but more forcefully. “You can’t go into surgery thinking like that. It’ll work. I know it will.”

“Clarke.” Lexa rolls admonishment and acceptance together into her name. 

“I’m serious. Positive attitudes are important to recovery.”

“I am also serious. There is nothing wrong with being prepared for every scenario. If I die, my body must return to Polis. My spirit will find the next commander, but my people must be appeased through a ritual mourning ceremony. It will help them move on.” 

Clarke releases Lexa’s hand, but only so she can slide her arms around Lexa’s waist. “Okay.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

Clarke shrugs. “If it means giving you peace of mind so you can rest before surgery tomorrow, okay.”

Lexa’s head bows slightly with her sigh of relief. “Good. Thank you.”

Clarke runs her hand up and down Lexa’s back, memorizing the feel of her fingers snaking along the small bumps of her vertebrae. “What would happen to your ashes?”

Lexa hesitates, then leans into Clarke, head coming to rest on top of hers where it lies on Lexa’s shoulder. “Take them with you to Nova. Scatter them amongst the land. I would…like to be near you.”

Clarke’s heart squeezes tight, a hard pain curling up in her chest. “I would like you to be near me too.” She’s done talking about death, then. “Come on, you should eat something now. You can’t have anything tonight before your surgery.”

Even a week ago, Lexa might have groaned and pushed herself to her feet, but now she crawls onto the bed proper so she can sit up against the wall. “Whatever you have, I will have too.”

Clarke squeezes her leg. “Coming right up.” She puts on a brave face until she’s safely out in the hallway with the door shut, and then she grabs her chest over her heart with a clawed hand, willing the fear to subside. It’s only after a few minutes of deep breathing that she feels able to head down to the dining hall and pick up a tray of food for the both of them. When she returns, Lexa is paging through a book, and her tired but sincere smile at Clarke standing in the doorway is enough to firm her resolve. Lexa will live, and then they’ll have the time they need to figure out everything else.

*

_Then_

She tells the others in the morning, and exactly no one looks surprised. Bellamy tries, though, bless him. “Your mom misses you,” he says.

“I know. Tell her I miss her too. But I’ll see her soon. I just have a few loose ends to tie up in Polis,” she says.

The return journey to the capital is a bit slower than the march up to the front as they carry the wounded along. By day she talks to Bellamy and Monty and Monroe, catching up on everything she missed, learning how everyone has been coping since the mountain. At night she goes to Lexa’s tent to check on her wounds. They don’t say much, but Clarke is sure Lexa must notice the way her touch lingers a little longer than it should as she examines Lexa’s body. Lexa always thanks her politely and then ushers Clarke out of her tent before their silences have the chance to grow awkward. 

Clarke doesn’t know why Lexa is so distant all of a sudden, compared to—whatever they were in Polis. Coming to some kind of understanding. Maybe working up the courage to make claims. Ever since the battle all she’s offered is politeness, little common courtesies that tell Clarke she’s grateful, but not much else. 

At the end of a long, tedious week, they’re finally within the outer range of Polis’ regular patrols, and messengers are on their way into the city to make it ready for their arrival. It’s their last night on the march and Clarke is doing her best not to think about what happens in the morning. 

She removes some of Lexa’s stitches that night, leaving the deeper cuts alone. Carefully, she picks them out while Lexa watches with morbid interest from her supine position on the bed. “That is an intriguing sensation,” she says of the way Clarke pulls the thread from her skin. 

“You have a weird pain threshold,” Clarke replies. She works slowly, methodically, taking her time, steadfastly ignoring the skin and muscle under her fingertips. She’s long since learned not to blink at the sight of Lexa in bra and underwear but she’d be lying if she said she was unaffected. 

The last stitch comes free and Clarke sets down the sharp knife she was using to cut the threads, blinking as her eyes adjust from the close-in work. “There. How does that feel?”

Experimentally, Lexa flexes her arm, then probes around the cut. It’s still tender, but no longer threatens to break open at the least provocation. She sits up and pats over the other cuts, the ones on her stomach and legs, pushing lightly around them and making interesting faces. “You are a good healer, Clarke.” 

“I had a good teacher,” Clarke says. Unexpectedly, a pang of longing for her mother strikes her. 

Lexa doesn’t miss it at all. “Return to Jaha if you wish. Your bed here will always be free.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

Lexa cuts her off with a mild “Clarke.”

She buries her face in her hands, scratching up into her scalp and back down. “I feel like I’m torn between two places. Do you ever feel like that? You want different things but you can only have one.”

“You know I do.” 

Clarke glances over at her, her calm face and soft eyes scrubbed free of warpaint. “Sorry, that came out…”

Lexa leans forward and kisses her on the corner of her mouth, as gentle a kiss as they’ve ever shared. The warm press of lips lasts a few seconds, and then Lexa pulls back just far enough that she can look Clarke in the eye. “You have a choice to make. I will tell you only this: I cannot give you what you deserve, Clarke. My people will always come first. Even among the Trikru, if I had to sacrifice one for the good of the rest, I would do it. I cannot hold one person separate in my heart. My great love is my people. Do you understand?”

Clarke feels her jaw tighten of its own accord, keeping tears from forming. She nods. 

Lexa turns away from her, reaching for her shirt. Clarke grasps her forearm, just under a half-healed cut. “Can I…can we…” She tries to convey what she wants through the squeeze of her hand on Lexa’s arm. She could try to lie, claim she’s okay with what Lexa can give her, but eventually they would both come to resent the other for always holding back part of themselves. Lexa is right. Better to part ways here, something more than friends, but not irrevocably intertwined. 

“Just tonight,” Lexa says, and Clarke nods again. It’ll make it harder to leave, but they both deserve this one thing. 

Clarke leans in this time, lips skimming over Lexa’s in light, fleeting kisses. She feels Lexa shift her body, opening up to her, and tilts her head to kiss her more deeply. The tip of her tongue traces Lexa’s bottom lip; she opens her mouth, taking Clarke in, licking into her hotly. Clarke pushes her down, mindful of the long gash tracing from her hipbone to under her belly button, and throws a leg over her hip. She pulls her hair over one shoulder and dips down, kissing Lexa hard. She kisses like it’s the last time, like after tonight Lexa will go to Polis and Clarke will return to Camp Jaha and when next they meet, they will no longer just be Clarke and Lexa but _Clarke Griffin of the Sky People_ and _Heda Lexa Kom Trikru_. 

Clarke is thorough, focusing on the details, the tastes and sounds and the feel of Lexa underneath her. If this is all they’re ever to have of each other, then she wants to gather up as much of it as she can. She stores it away in her heart to last her for the long days ahead. 

If Lexa notices the stray tears that escape from Clarke’s eyes and dot her cheeks, she says nothing, only pulls Clarke to her with both hands and holds her there until they fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

_Now_

Lexa’s surgery lasts seven hours. It would be longer, but this is Abby’s second go-round and she’s had a long time to plan this out and make time savings where she can. Clarke is supposed to take herself off somewhere as a distraction because she’s no good to anyone just pacing back and forth, so at first she tries to read, but the words keep blurring together as she fades in and out of worst-case scenario daydreams. Then she hops on the radio to Nova, asking for updates, until Raven gets on the line and tells Clarke to stop bothering the radio operator, who is new to the job and doesn’t need this kind of hassle in her first week. She signs off with an affectionate and sincere “Good luck.” 

Clarke goes for a walk around the camp, then tries to eat something, then tries reading again. Drawing goes very badly, yielding dark meaningless scrambles. One of Abby’s new students, a timid boy who couldn’t have been more than a toddler when the Ark came down, tries to offer to come get Clarke when the surgery is over; she sends him scurrying with a glower. In the end she does exactly what she said she wouldn’t do and paces in a maddening circle, pausing only to glance anxiously at the surgical suite’s airlock-style entry. 

But after seven hours she hears the airlock cycle and her mother emerges, still in her cap and gown. Even though she looks exhausted, her face is triumphant, the kind of bright, hard smile she would wear during Clarke’s childhood when she came home from a rare surgery. She sits down next to Clarke, slumped halfway while one hand pulls off her surgical cap. “I think it worked,” she says, which is not precisely what Clarke wants to hear, but she can appreciate that her mother is being honest with her.

“Prognosis?” Clarke prompts her.

“I got everything and kept the optic nerve intact. So now—”

“We wait for her to wake up,” Clarke finishes, speaking half to herself. Her arms fold tight against her chest and she squeezes her own biceps like a lifeline.

Abby nods. For a long while they’re silent, sitting together and processing what they’ve both just gone through. “Did you know this was the second time I’ve ever operated on a brain tumor?” she asks.

Clarke shakes her head. 

“Supplies were so limited on the Ark that we never attempted it. Lexa’s was my first. I read everything I could, but at least twenty percent of it was guesswork.”

Clarke doesn’t really want to know this, but at the same time Abby needs to say it, to release all the pent-up tension of the surgery. 

“I was terrified the entire time even though I must have simulated the surgery a dozen times. But it went perfectly, Clarke. As perfectly as any surgery can go.” Abby squeezes her wrist. “So try not to worry when there’s nothing you can do until she wakes up?”

“I’ll…try,” Clarke says. They exchange wry smiles, knowing how futile it is to ask this of Clarke. “They’re moving her?”

Abby flicks her eyes at the airlock. “Taking her to recovery now.”

Clarke pushes herself to her feet as Lexa’s gurney rolls out of the surgery suite, escorted by two of Abby’s interns. Clarke follows, trying not to rush them along, waiting patiently while they get her gurney locked down in the recovery room, very determinedly not tapping her foot as they update her chart and get everything settled to Abby’s exacting standards. When they’re finally gone, she pulls up a chair next to Lexa’s bed and settles in for the next leg of her long wait. She folds her arms loosely on the edge of the mattress and rests her head on them and stares at Lexa’s quiet, still face. 

She must fall asleep, because it’s not that long until she feels something moving beside her head. It’s Lexa’s leg, twitching a little under the covers. Clarke pushes herself upright, blinking furiously as she tries to come to full awareness. “Lexa?” she asks.

Lexa swallows and her eyes flutter. She seems to be struggling to hold them open. Her tongue slips out to wet her lips. “Clarke?” she asks. She doesn’t quite get all the consonants and it comes out half a whisper, but it’s distinguishable as a name.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Clarke says, standing up and moving closer to the top of the bed. Her hand hovers over Lexa’s body, wanting to touch and reassure, but waiting for a cue from Lexa. “How do you feel?”

Her eyes struggle again, this time opening fully. “I see you,” she says. 

Clarke smiles without reservation, a dumb, shining smile of total happiness. “I see you too,” she says, but not in the same way Lexa means it.

Lexa seems to understand, groggy as she is. Her hand slips along the covers, moving jerkily towards Clarke, fingers flexing to show what she wants. Clarke meets her hand before it can get far and traps it with gentle pressure, stroking from her knuckles up to her elbow and back down again. “I’ll get my mom,” Clarke says. “Stay here.”

Lexa is able to manage a small, sarcastic smile, which Clarke finds even more encouraging than her eyesight. 

Abby, on the other hand, focuses on Lexa’s eyes when Clarke fetches her, testing the limits of Lexa’s vision and asking her cognitive questions that Lexa mostly answers without hesitation. A few times she pauses and in those moments Clarke’s heart pauses as well, but each time it’s only for Lexa to gather her thoughts or recall something with clarity. Clarke absorbs this all with the eye of a trained professional; even if she didn’t complete her surgical training in order to focus on building Nova, she still knows how to assess a post-op patient, and when Abby finally reaches for Lexa’s digital chart to make an entry, she knows the prognosis is good.

“You can go back to sleep now,” Clarke says, once again letting her hand drift along Lexa’s arm. 

Lexa doesn’t even wait for the end of the sentence to close her eyes, head sinking into her pillow and tilting slightly to the right, away from the bandage covering the left side of her head. Her mouth opens a fraction as her breaths grow deep and even.

“It’s good, right?” Clarke asks. Even though she’s already drawn her own conclusions she wants her mother’s reassurance, in more ways than one.

“It’s good,” Abby confirms. “We’ll keep her for observation and some scans to make sure the tumor doesn’t grow back, and she’ll probably have to come back here once a year at least, but it’s good.”

Clarke is too tired to execute an actual fist pump, but she feels it inside, down to her gut. It feels like raising the first building in Nova, the first successful harvest, the first new baby. It feels like a beginning.

“I’ll have someone set up a cot in here for you,” says Abby. Clarke hugs her, remembering how Abby used to grumble and snap at even the mention of Lexa’s name. “I think it’ll be about a week until you can leave,” Abby continues, returning Clarke’s embrace, smoothing down her hair a few times before letting her go.

“I don’t know, maybe we’ll stay a little longer,” Clarke hedges, not wanting to seem so eager to get away from her mother.

Abby levels a very knowing look at her, the kind Clarke used to get when she said she just lost track of time while hanging out with her friends. “Bring back that tea I like from Polis, the herbal one. I’m almost out.” 

*

_Then_

Clarke wakes up confused, expecting her hard bedroll in the Grounder tent until she remembers that she spent the night with Lexa. Her bed of furs is so much warmer and more comfortable than the single musky fur she was allotted by the army’s quartermaster that she almost goes back to sleep. But today is the day—they’ll break camp and enter Polis by noon. Clarke will say her goodbyes, and then turn back towards Camp Jaha with the rest of her people.

Lexa is already awake next to her, flat on her stomach with her head pillowed on her arms, covers slipping down just enough to expose the top of the tattoo on her back. She watches Clarke silently, eyes tracing the details of her face. It’s still partially dark outside and Clarke takes the opportunity to catch Lexa in an unguarded moment. She may never have a moment like this again. Her hand creeps closer under the furs until she can slide it around the curve of Lexa’s ribs and onto her back. She half expects Lexa to twitch away, to leap from the bed at the touch, but she continues breathing. Her eyes flicker closed. 

Clarke doesn’t move any closer, content to feel Lexa breathe under her hand and watch her drowse and listen to the occasional creak or horse whinny from the still-silent camp. Part of her is screaming at her to stay—she’s finally found a measure of peace in Polis and she has friends here entirely separate from the baggage of everything. Everything she’s done since she landed on this planet, everyone she’s killed in the name of her people, everything she’s forced herself not to think about too deeply. 

Eventually the camp begins to stir and Clarke can hear booted feet trudging around their tent. Lexa stirs and wakes up fully, yawning and rubbing at the dark circles under her eyes. With her body still healing what she really needs is a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep, but Clarke knows Lexa will only take extra rest if it’s forced onto her. It doesn’t help that they were up into the late hours of the night saying goodbye. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says. Her voice is pleasantly scratchy and Clarke thinks how nice it would be to hear her name like that every morning, the first word from Lexa’s lips. She takes that thought and swallows it savagely, erasing it from existence. 

“I’m here,” she says.

There’s a clang outside, something metal on metal, and whatever it is seems to snap Lexa into commander mode. She sits up, pushing away her furs, back turned to Clarke so that she can see in detail the dark tattoos and scars scattered across her skin. Unconcerned with her nudity even in the sharply chilled winter air, she stands and stretches, a full body tautness pulling from her outstretched arms down to her legs. Then it’s dousing her face with icy water, kept from freezing into a solid block by the glowing brazier nearby, tying her hair back into something neat and presentable, and assembling the trappings of her office. From start to finish it takes about ten minutes and Clarke spends that entire time watching her slip around the tent. They will never have this, the comfortable silence of a morning routine, preparing for the day together with small touches and silent looks. It doesn’t seem fair, but Clarke wonders what _fair_ is for people like them. 

Lexa finally buckles on her shoulder guard, automatically arranging it to drape neatly. She stands at the entrance to the tent, poised to enter the world once again. “It would be best to part ways now. I have many duties to attend to in Polis, as I’m sure you must do with your people.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything, watching from the bed. She’s afraid if she does speak, her voice will break.

Lexa takes the silence as acceptance, and pushes aside the tent flap without another word. 

It’s only then that Clarke is able to get up and pull on her clothes, trying to stay as close as possible to the brazier until she’s layered up once again. Outside it’s even colder and she can see a fine layer of powder on the ground, with more flaking slowly down from the sky. There’s a rustling sense of purpose in camp, an eagerness to move and return to the safety and comfort of home. She finds her people off to one side, dismantling their tent and getting everything packed up. She can tell they all know exactly where she was last night, but thankfully Bellamy just jumps to business as soon as she’s within range.

“What’s on the schedule?” he asks.

“We should head out for Jaha as soon as we’re provisioned,” Clarke says, grateful for their discretion.

“We?” Bellamy repeats.

“I have to get a few things together. I’ll show you where to get stocked up, then meet you back at the stables in the outer ring a little after midday.” 

Once again they accept that this is the way things are and Clarke is only too glad to roll with it. She stays with them for the rest of the march to Polis, explaining in a low voice the layout of the city and how its rings are organized, everything they didn’t get to see the first time they were in the city due to the time crunch. They’re still not accustomed to the high walls and bustling crowds and as they ride through the heavy outer gate with their heads craning, Clarke thinks this must be how Lexa feels on showing people her city. Polis is what the world could be; Clarke wonders if it was like this before Lexa became the commander. From what she’s gathered, it’s been a few commanders since they’ve had anything more than uneasy truces and intermittent clashes over resources. 

Passing through the gate takes a while; even with a large chunk of the army setting up camp outside the walls, they still choke up as they pass inside, forced to ride four or five abreast. Clarke leaves the Arkers at the stables with a few reassuring words for the guards, hovering around their precious crate of guns, and makes her way up the main thoroughfare to the palace. She doesn’t have many things left in her room, and some of it she plans to leave behind, but a few items she wants to ensure aren’t lost or stolen or repurposed. Her sketchbooks go into her satchel, as well as a shirt she’s come to like, and some of the charcoal sticks she sharpened up and wrapped to use as pencils. 

Then she’s hurrying back out, not wanting to run into Lexa, even though the commander really has no reason to be in this wing.

Oro isn’t in the bunk room she shares with the other girls who come to Polis to learn—no doubt tending to Lexa and the other returning warriors—so Clarke leaves a few a drawings on the bed she guesses is Oro’s judging from the familiar jacket tossed on the chest at its foot. It’s all Ark life, the things Oro was most curious about. The Ark itself, Earth from space, a Unity Day ceremony. 

The next stop is Carver’s modest home on a side street a few blocks from the palace. Carver isn’t even in residence; she’s been much in demand by Lexa, making sure released prisoners go where they’re supposed to and reporting back on any grumbling that is straying too close to true uprising. Still, it feels wrong to leave Polis without even a reminder of their friendship, so Clarke lets herself in, still marveling that there are no locks here, and deposits one of her nearly-empty sketchbooks on the table in the front room. It’s mostly horses, with a few of the buildings and a profile of Carver in it. In the back, a short note that Carver is always welcome at Camp Jaha. The rest of the pages are blank, to be filled by Carver herself. 

She goes to the market and says goodbye to her favorite vendors. Ellie at the smoked fish stall insists on giving her one last meal for the road, and so she ends up back at the stables with half a juicy filet sticking out of her mouth and her fingers greasy and salty and a satchel of mementos hanging by her hip. 

“So glad you could stop and get lunch,” says Monroe, although she’s sniffing interestedly at the half of the fish still left in Clarke’s hand. Clarke holds it out wordlessly because Monroe’s face really is pathetic and she’s certain they haven’t had anything like fresh seafood at Jaha (or ever). Monroe takes it, smells it a few times, turns it over in her hand, then nibbles tentatively at it. Her face lights up, and the nibbles turn into large bites.

“Hey, what if I wanted some?” Monty asks, which starts a squabble over the last bit of fish that makes Clarke smile. This is her tribe, for better or worse, and the thought of returning to Camp Jaha doesn’t make her seize up with anxiety and terror anymore. There’s just a lowkey buzz of nerves, maybe some apprehension. Knowing there’s somewhere she can go in a worst-case scenario helps a lot.

The horses are saddled and provisioned; she wishes she could thank Lexa for leaving behind orders that they were to be given whatever they wanted for the ride but it’s far too late for that. 

She rides away from Polis with a short sidelong glance over her shoulder at its retreating walls. She thinks for a moment that she spots a dark figure standing at the ramparts, someone slight with brown hair, hands braced against the dark wood. But when she glances back a second time, the figure is gone.

*

_Now_

Lexa recovers in leaps and bounds, as she’s always done. Clarke has always put it down to her hardy Grounder constitution, but even among her people she seems to be one for rapid healing. Superior genetics, she sometimes thinks, and laughs, which inevitably gets a curious look from Lexa but Clarke never explains.

By the end of the week Lexa feels well enough to be out and about in long stretches and passes every exam Abby can throw at her with flying colors. “I leave for Polis today,” she says, when Abby grudgingly admits that she doesn’t really have a reason to hold Lexa at Camp Jaha. She doesn’t look at Clarke when she says this, but Clarke is with her nevertheless. 

Clarke watches as Lexa packs her saddlebags in their room, methodically sweeping from one corner to the opposite corner to make sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. She seems twitchy about something, glancing at Clarke every other step, and finally she says, with just a hint of trepidation, “You will remain at Jaha then?”

Clarke offers up a cheeky grin. “My bag’s been packed for days.”

Lexa’s return smile is all Clarke needs to know. She rubs at the fuzz growing back on the shaved side of her head. Clarke has spent a lot of time soothing her hand against that hair, rubbing up against the nap and then back with the silky grain of it. “We will talk during the ride.”

“We’ll talk,” Clarke agrees.

Her mom is waiting for them at the gates. She hugs Clarke, then takes Lexa’s outstretched forearm and clasps it. “Have a good journey,” she says, practically friendly coming from her. 

“I am grateful to you, Abby Griffin of the Sky People,” Lexa says.

“You’re my patient, Lexa,” Abby says. The deliberate omission of her title isn’t so grating now, just an acknowledgment that Abby has seen Lexa at her most vulnerable and Lexa requires no bow to hierarchy from her.

They mount up together, Lexa on her huffing and impatient dark-coated palfrey and Clarke on her calmer mare. Abby waves goodbye from the gate until they’re a fair distance from the camp. They meet up with Lexa’s retinue in about fifteen minutes after Abby fades from view, finding them formed up and ready to go. Lexa acknowledges each warrior and spends some time riding close to their leader, a quietly confident woman Clarke finds familiar but can’t quite place.

Suddenly it occurs to her. “Oro!” she blurts out.

Oro’s face transforms from stern to a toothy grin. “I wondered when you would remember, Clarke Kom Skaikru.”

Clarke brings her horse closer so she can get a good look at the girl—the woman, now. She last remembers Oro as a gangly little weed of a girl, slow to get her growth spurt, and here she is grown very well. Clarke makes out the black lines of tattoos on her dark skin, spelling out her status and her responsibilities. If Lexa chose her as the leader of her personal retinue, she must hold Oro in high esteem indeed. 

Lexa watches them with a look of mild satisfaction, content to let them have their reunion. Reports can wait a few minutes.

“I last saw you at a harvest festival—ten years ago? Eleven?” They’ve had enough festivals that some of them blur together around the edges, something her teenaged self would have declared an impossibility. 

“At least ten,” Oro agrees. “I have been away from Polis the last four festivals and before that, living amongst our people.”

“What, for six years?” Clarke asks.

“To lead your people, you must know them,” Oro recites. Clarke glances to her right, across Oro, and finds Lexa looking pleased. “I have traveled our entire territory, and some of the territory of our allies,” Oro continues.

“Her apprenticeship would have concluded at Nova, but I have needed her elsewhere,” Lexa says.

Oro seems to remember her duties then and subtly leans towards Lexa, nudging their horses closer. Clarke sits back in her saddle, knowing she’ll have plenty of time yet to catch up Oro’s life, and makes no pretense about listening in while Oro relays to Lexa the latest news from Polis. There’s no point in pretending that she doesn’t have a vested interested in either Lexa or the Tree People, or that they shouldn’t expect her to get involved in their business. What concerns the Tree People concerns the Sky People as well. Everything is well, as far as Oro knows, and the Ice Nation rumors have no substance behind them. Their lands are peaceful still.

When Oro’s report is concluded, Lexa spurs her horse ahead of the column by a dozen lengths, followed closely by Clarke. “Sounds like Polis has been okay without you,” she says.

“As I designed it,” Lexa says, only a touch prideful. But there’s uncertainty too. She’s been gone for nearly over a month and has taken steps for her people to be without her permanently. Yet here they are, riding back to Polis like nothing ever happened. Just a new haircut and one of the Skaikru in tow.

“You going to tell them what happened?” Clarke asks.

Lexa mulls this over, and for a few minutes there’s just the shift and creak of their saddles and the horses’ rhythmic canter. It’s a bit fast-paced for Clarke, but Lexa is eager to make good time and their horses seem to prefer it, so she endures the gait with no small amount of stoicism. At last, Lexa speaks. “No. It does no good to tell them what has been happening to me. It undermines their belief in their heda and would invite questions from our less staunch allies.”

“Then what are you going to tell them?” She asks out of genuine curiosity and not any kind of accusation, which Lexa understands if her second studied pause is any indication.

“Would you be willing to accept a lie on your behalf, Clarke?” Lexa asks, taking her eyes off the trail to look at her. She’s heda now, making a business proposal to her ally.

“You know I already have,” Clarke replies. “And you know it depends on the lie.” She speaks as leader of her people, not Clarke who stroked Lexa’s back while she heaved on an empty stomach, or read to her until she fell asleep, or listened to her murmur out her fears during nightmares deep in the wolf hours. They’ve both been flipping back and forth between personas for years and they switch tracks together with ease.

“I have had much time to think,” Lexa says, coming at the topic sideways as she sometimes does. “I have also had much time to observe. Nova is thriving. You provide over a tenth of what Polis now requires to last through the winter, did you know that?”

Clarke shakes her head; she keeps on top of production figures for Nova’s sake, and has renegotiated their tithe to the Grounders several times to increase the amount in exchange for more land, resources, and protection, but she’s never heard it in plain numbers from the Trikru side. 

“You have become essential to our survival. Our people are very aware of it, and several of my lieutenants worry that this gives you leverage among us though you are not of us.” 

Clarke might have once jumped in with objections and reassurances, might have once been afraid that this speech was leading to separation and abandonment. Now she just keeps following Lexa. 

“We could shift our own resources to compensate for your loss, but it would take time, and there remains the problem of Nova still existing on our lands. So I have decided that the best way to end dissent is to erase the distinction between Skaikru and Trikru, at least in the ways that matter to my people. There will be no more tithe, because you will simply be sharing with your kin. Already our people intermarry and produce children who are of both yet neither world.” Lexa slows her horse gradually, maintaining her slight lead on her retinue and making sure that Clarke matches her pace. 

“I will tell my people that I have been visiting Nova and Camp Jaha in order to assess whether you were ready to integrate with the Trikru, and to discuss terms of the merger of our peoples. You will become one of our tribes, distinct but not separate.” She rides close enough for their legs to brush every few steps. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Clarke draws a deep breath. Somehow, without consciously knowing it, she’s been waiting for this day. Maybe it was when they first surveyed the land that would become Nova, using maps drawn in a familiar Trikru hand. Maybe it was when Lexa granted them another ten acres for their planting with hardly a minute of negotiation. Maybe it was when she saw Lexa’s face alight with the peace and prosperity of Nova, walking among the wheat fields, hands brushing almost reverently thorough the stalks. Whatever it is, Clarke knows this is right. “I think I’ll have to ask the council, and the actual negotiations will take a while longer. But yes. We’re ready. Your people are ready. We’ll be one instead of two.”

Lexa’s voice lowers so as not to carry on the air. “And you, Clarke? I promised you that we would discuss our fate. Have your feelings changed?”

Clarke wants to reach out and stroke her arm or her thigh, but they have an audience. She lets their legs bump together again and crooks half a smile. “They haven’t.”

“You know that even when our peoples have merged, I still cannot value the life of one person over the greater whole?”

Clarke’s smile turns slightly melancholy. “You know I do.”

For a moment, they are both frighteningly young, on a crowded hilltop at night, and Clarke’s hands are soaked in the blood of one of her own while Lexa regards her with begrudging respect. In the present, Lexa inclines her head, the respect no longer begrudged. “You would accept me on those terms? I want you to be happy, Clarke. You deserve someone who can give themselves to you in every way.”

“I know what I deserve,” Clarke says, even though sometimes she’s not sure that she does. But those moments of uncertainty are growing few and far between the more that Nova prospers. Her mother knew. Raven knew. She knows now too—a little late, but still in time to catch the important things. “And I know what I want. I don’t want terms. We’re not a contract or a negotiation. We’re us, and sometimes we’ll have problems, and we’ll work them out. Who knows, maybe one day we won’t be able to work them out. It happens. But I’m not scared of anything happening to my people because of something happening to us. We have responsibilities, but now we have the room to make mistakes with each other without hurting anyone else. Does that make sense?”

Lexa pulls her horse wide, just a little bit, putting a stride or so between them. She chews her lip once. “Yes, it makes sense.”

“Do you still need me to wait?”

Lexa goes very still in her saddle, though her hips still rock instinctively with her horse’s gait. She looks down at her reins. “No.” Now her eyes slip sideways at Clarke. “We’ve both waited long enough.”

Clarke wants to laugh, big belly-deep laughs bellowed into the blue summer sky. She wants to grab Lexa and kiss her, heedless of if they fall off their horses. But they are who they are. She closes the distance between them again. “I guess I won’t be needing my usual room in the capital building then.”

Lexa looks for a moment like she might give Clarke a shove for her innuendo, but instead checks back over her shoulder to see where her retinue is. She barks a command at them, then spurs her horse forward with a challenging glance for Clarke. They burst into a gallop together, running for the sheer joy of it, alive and free and happy.


	12. Chapter 12

_Now_

Clarke’s favorite place in Polis and one of her first stops any time she visits the city is the art gallery in the palace. They took hard drives from Mount Weather that were stuffed with information about old Earth, even more than what they had on the Ark, and among them was an entire course on the preservation and display of art. An older woman from the Ark, Eun-sun, lives in Polis now as a permanent curator, restoring the paintings they took from the mountain and rotating out displays for the viewing public. Polis is the acknowledged cultural capital of the Grounders and there’s a growing artisan class whose projects Eun-sun also displays parallel to the old Earth works. Competition is fierce to attract her attention. 

Clarke likes to sit on a bench against the middle of the wall opposite the door and look down both walls, comparing the art of the past to the art of the present. The current trend in Grounder palettes is still rooted in natural greens and browns, but some of them have started experimenting with the brighter end of the spectrum, vivid hues of blue and red and yellow. Clarke still remembers the day when one of them unveiled an enormous floor-to-ceiling canvas depicting Lexa on a rearing warhorse, sword aloft, dead enemies scattered around her feet. It was more raw than anything, an almost impressionistic swirl of black and red, but unmistakably Lexa. She’d given a short, sober speech of appreciation, but Clarke knows that Lexa actually quite likes the painting for “capturing her essence.” She would almost say that Lexa sometimes preens over it, but heda is most certainly not given to preening.

People wander in and out of the gallery, not paying much attention to the hooded woman in the back sitting quietly by herself. She watches how they take in the art, whether they drift to old or new, whether they truly engage with it or stare at it in incomprehensible curiosity. Eun-sun is on a mid-21st century modernist kick it seems and there’s a lot of literal head-scratching and more than a few puzzled head tilts. Clarke was never much for the modernists herself. 

Someone settles down on the bench next to her, thigh just brushing against Clarke’s thigh. “How long has it been since you have visited?” Lexa asks. 

People still come and go, but their steps fall quieter, their voices growing hushed in the presence of heda. Lexa has half an eye on them, but the majority of her attention on Clarke. “Since last harvest festival,” Clarke says. She pulls back her hood and rakes her fingers through her hair; no point in attempting anonymity now that Lexa is here. She sweeps Lexa from head to toe, the quick mental evaluation she learned to do when she first found out Lexa was sick. Already gaining back some weight, and her shaved hair has grown out long enough to look awkward and prickly. She lets her hand just barely edge up against Lexa’s where it rests on the bench. “Done for the day?”

Lexa leans back against the wall, but doesn’t move her hand. “Yes.” There’s hours of stories packed into that one word from how wearily it falls out of Lexa’s mouth. Clarke doesn’t press; it’s not the kind of terse, coiled up answer that needs her to poke at it until Lexa unloads everything compressed inside of her. It’s just a tired answer at the end of a long day. 

“Dinner?”

“Yes.”

Clarke stands up first, checking her instinct to hold out a hand to help Lexa get up too. Lexa braces her hands on her knees and pushes, looking like something inside of her joints is creaking. Clarke doesn’t like to think about that; her own left knee twinges sometimes when rain is imminent, the remnant of a partial ligament tear eight years ago. Their bodies have seen the kind of wear that people twice their age normally go through, most of it compressed into those early years after Arkfall.

Together they leave the gallery, walking through the palace to Lexa’s quarters. One of the girls learning from Lexa and hoping to get picked as a second falls in behind them. Lexa makes a hand gesture and the girl nods, scampering off to the kitchens for food. She looks about the same age as Oro when she began her tutelage with heda, mostly arms and legs and eager to please. How many girls has Lexa taught over the years? What strength has she built into her people? She’s good with children; they like her because she speaks to them as though they’re small adults. Lexa and children—Clarke feels a peculiar thump in her heart at the image. 

Lexa immediately starts pulling off her shoulder guard once they’re safely in their quarters, away from the public eye. Her jacket is next, then sword belt. She sits heavily at the side table and picks up a book from where she left it the day before. This is what Lexa does when she has any little bit of time to herself: she reads. She is a voracious reader, always hunting new tomes, going over old ones, recommending the best ones to Clarke. Her collection of books has taken a lifetime to amass, gathered piecemeal from ruins and bunkers. The library inside Mount Weather was tantamount to a treasure trove, to Lexa what the art was to Clarke. Military tactics, farming methods, architecture, legal treatises, Lexa devours it all. Anything she can use to help build her vision of the future.

They read quietly for about ten minutes until dinner arrives balanced on a tray carried by the slightly-out-of-breath girl. She deposits the tray on the side table and looks to have every intention of backing respectfully out of the room, but Lexa stops her with a word. “Alia.”

“Yes, heda.”

Lexa closes her book, a mid-size hardback with faded lettering along the spine. “Has your reading improved?”

Alia starts a shrug, seems to think better of it. “A little, heda.”

Lexa hands over her book. “Read this. When you are finished, you will describe it to me.”

Alia bobs her head in quick deference, takes the book carefully from Lexa, and completes her exit. 

“You should send some of the girls to Nova,” Clarke says. “Make it an official part of their traveling.”

“They will have to once Nova is a Trikru village,” Lexa agrees, sounding pleased about it. 

Clarke is still hesitant about that and it must show, because Lexa’s eyebrows quirk. “You’re still uncertain about joining our peoples,” she says, eyes going as flat as her voice. 

“No, not really,” says Clarke. She taps her fork a few times. “Sort of.”

“Second thoughts are natural.”

“It’s not that.” Clarke looks around Lexa’s bedroom, so different from her house in Nova. It’s not just a matter of aesthetic; there are elements in this room unique to Grounder culture that just wouldn’t occur to an Arker. The weapons are most obvious, but there’s also open flames everywhere. Even after years on Earth, most of the adults from the Ark act like oxygen is their most precious resource. They have to consciously reassure themselves about oxygen consumption, food waste, power requirements, drinking water. The average house in Nova is much, much smaller than a house in Polis, and still Arkers consider Nova houses almost indulgent. After a lifetime of scarcity, suddenly being thrust into a world of plenty is an ongoing adjustment. 

“What is it?” Lexa asks, almost gentle.

“We were always taught that we were supposed to return to the ground. But we’re still Sky People. Skaikru. It feels weird to be giving that up, even if it’s in name only.” Clarke keeps fidgeting with her silverware. 

“Your children and your children’s children will be of the Earth, Clarke,” Lexa says, still gentle, truthful but not recriminating. “All you can do is teach them your history and pass on your ways.”

Clarke hums her agreement, vague and noncommittal. 

“I can only give you my promise that your people will retain their autonomy,” Lexa says. _Promise_. Clarke hears all their shared history behind the word. 

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” Clarke says, forcing a smile onto her face. She starts eating again, enjoying the familiar bouquet of Grounder spices that they can’t quite seem to duplicate in Nova. The taste is almost soothing, her mind automatically associating it with the happiness of the harvest festival.

Lexa does her the courtesy of returning to her meal as well, but under the table Clarke lets their feet slide close together until they’re nearly stacked one atop the other. 

*

The council members from Nova and the elders from Camp Jaha arrive a week after Clarke returns to Polis. She thinks, privately, that her mother would have a small fit at being described as an elder, but that’s what she is. Elder but not elderly, Clarke compromises with herself. She doesn’t want to think about her mom getting older, the liberal streaks of grey in her hair, the wrinkles in her still-steady hands. There’s no reason to think she won’t live another thirty, forty years. She’s seen quite a few elderly in Polis, way more than in the outlying villages. Grounders hold their elderly in extraordinarily high regard, though that population is starting to grow as conflict and disease decline and standardized health care spreads. 

She and Lexa receive the delegation at the outer gates, Lexa in her usual black with ochre sash of state and Clarke in dark pants and a wraparound shirt cut from the blue cloth Lexa traded for in Nova. She likes the way Lexa looks at her when she wears it, how she drags her eyes along Clarke’s neck and collarbones before drifting back up to her face. 

Abby and Kane descend from their wagon with travel bags in hand while Bellamy, Raven, Lincoln, and Monty offload their horses’ saddlebags. Lincoln tries to grab Octavia’s bags too, but she kicks at him from where she’s still seated on her horse and he quickly backs away, watching her slide off the horse and pull the bags free herself, still moving efficiently in her second trimester. Monty’s wife Elena is with them too; she piles her saddlebags on top of Monty’s and runs off, already eager to get the lay of the marketplace. “Bye, I love you,” he calls after her. She tosses a wave over her shoulder.

Trikru have gathered as well, one of them calling out to Raven. She waves and walks over, launching into a conversation with him about a steam hammer and the setup of his forge that Clarke can’t follow. 

“It’s not like we have anything important to do,” Clarke says, flopping her arms against her sides as Raven leaves without a backwards glance.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Bellamy says, eyes already scanning the crowd. He spots a familiar face, a pretty woman who smiles shyly; her smile turns to delight when he pulls a small gift from his saddlebag. Lincoln spots a friend in the crowd who pulls him aside, casting friendly arms around his and Octavia’s shoulders. Clarke is left with Monty, sagging a little under the weight of both his and his wife’s luggage. 

Kane and Abby join her, sharing a joint look of amusement. 

“I suppose you two want to run off and sightsee as well,” Clarke half accuses them.

“Heda Lexa Kom Trikru, mochof hashta yo mounin,” says Kane with exaggerated formality, holding out his hand with a little bow. 

“Be welcome in Polis, Marcus Kane,” says Lexa, taking his hand. They look together at Clarke, who just rolls her eyes and starts walking back to the palace. 

“A little help,” Monty says faintly. One of the attendants following Lexa relieves him of his burden and he smiles in gratitude. “Elena brought flour to trade,” he explains to Clarke. “Just two giant sacks of Nova flour. She says Trikru flour makes denser bread and she didn’t want to wait for the next trader to come through.” He still looks around as they walk, taking in the sights, but it’s not the same googly-eyed wonder as his first visit to Polis. They’re all familiar with the capital city now through the harvest festival and regular trade. Some Trikru look at them as they pass, but mostly because Lexa is with them. Skaikru in Polis aren’t so rare these days that they leave whispers and craned necks in their wake.

“Your usual quarters have been set up,” Lexa says as they pass through the palace’s huge main entrance. “Come to the strategy hall when you are ready.” She shoots a quick, questioning look at Clarke. Clarke tips her head minutely at her mother and Lexa’s returns half a nod before leaving, taking most of her retinue with her. 

Clarke tags along with the Sky trio as they’re escorted to the nicer visitor’s quarters, even though they could probably find the way by themselves. The attendant is courteous but silent, one of the regular palace staffers, and he slips away unobtrusively as soon as they arrive. “How was your trip?” she asks as her mom begins unpacking. Kane and Monty are presumably doing the same across the hall. 

“Smooth. The roads are better,” says Abby. She looks around her room, at the paintings on the walls and the neatly-made bed. These rooms are kept specifically for Sky People and it shows, taking cues from the aesthetic in Nova. The clean lines and lighter colors are such a contrast to Lexa’s quarters that Clarke almost feels uncomfortable here, like a guest in her own home. “How’s Lexa?” Abby asks, and her tone makes it clear she’s asking as a doctor.

“Still recovering. I’m keeping an eye her. She seems fine,” says Clarke. “She’ll be back in a month for the follow-up scan, I promise.”

“It’s good she listens to you,” says Abby. She sits down on the bed and Clarke joins her without prompting. “Now tell me about this proposal of hers.”

*

It’s astonishing how easily the negotiations go. Not the substance of it—there are a lot of points of law that Kane and Abby stick on—but the actual process is smooth. They each trust that the other is truly interested in a beneficial outcome. Lexa doesn’t give up in confused exasperation when the Arkers can’t understand Grounder reasoning; they do their best to take on board that many of the remnants of their daily lives from the Ark really are defunct, kept mostly for their comforting familiarity. Lincoln and Octavia aren’t on the council but have the most input and Lexa listens to them carefully, to the things they’ve learned after years of forging a single unit from Ground and Sky.

“Didn’t really think I’d see it happen,” says Octavia over dinner on the last day of negotiations. They eat in the strategy room, sequestered from the main dining hall while they work. Rumors swirl through Polis about why the Sky People have come and why they remain locked away with heda day after day. But none if it is fearful, merely curious. Lexa has told Clarke that most of the people believe Nova is expanding again, which means more prosperity for the Trikru as well. There’s a low-key attitude of optimism spreading through the city. 

Clarke makes a noncommittal sound; it’s been different for Octavia, who watched Lincoln long for his people for years until relations between them began to normalize. Clarke suspects it’s also why they waited so long to have a second child. Their struggle to raise Aurora in both her parents’ cultures, dealing with the suspicions of Arkers who thought Octavia had gone native or Grounders who despised Lincoln as a traitor—it’s made them wary. They’ve been able to move freely between Grounder and Sky society for a while now, but those early years were hard and they left their mark. 

“Raven thinks all the paperwork can be done in a week,” Octavia continues. Nearby, Lincoln pushes his unfinished dinner towards her without interrupting his conversation with Bellamy and she slides the plate neatly in place of her empty one. 

“Raven just wants to show off her printing press,” says Clarke, and indeed Raven is still quite smug about the press she built four years after they founded Nova in collaboration with a metalworker who could create the typeface to Raven’s exacting specifications. Books have flooded Polis and Nova, not just classics saved from old Earth, but new works as well. The Trikru are all mad for fiction, mostly dramas revolving around families and farming. 

“Yeah, but it’s a nice press,” says Octavia. “And she said she found someone in Polis who makes fancy paper, so the documents can look nice.”

Clarke watches as Octavia continues to dissect her dinner with frightening speed. She looks content, happy. Lincoln is at his ease, and so is Bellamy as they discuss some archery contest they saw in Nova. Monty and Raven are sneaking drinks out of a flask and trying to convince Oro to join them while Indra watches disapprovingly with her arms folded. Lexa actually seems interested in Kane and Abby, not just politely waiting for the conversation to be over. She glances at Clarke, as if sensing her scrutiny, and offers a reassuring smile, the small one that only Clarke tends to pick up on. 

Clarke smiles back, bigger and more open. 

“So are you moving to Polis or are you guys doing the long distance thing?” Octavia asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Clarke says, thinking again of how easy it was to fall back into the rhythms of Polis. It only took a few days for her to feel as though she’d been in the city for weeks. Something inside of her loosens, like a deep breath of air after leaving a low-oxygen environment. She shrugs. “I’m not too worried about it, actually.”

“That’s good,” Octavia says. She smiles at Clarke too, the kind of generous happiness that had only really returned to her when Aurora was born. “I’m glad you’re happy. And Nova is fine without you.”

“Thanks,” Clarke drawls with a heavy dose of sarcastic humor. 

Octavia just tosses a piece of bread at her.

*

They have one more thing to take care of before they announce the merger. Lexa assembles a few trusted guards, but leaves Oro behind to watch how Indra commands in Lexa's absence. She and Clarke leave Polis in the small hours of the morning, making their way to Camp Jaha. Normally it's a three-day ride, but Lexa wants to cut it down to two so she won't be gone from Polis very long.

Clarke is grumpy so early in the morning, accustomed these days to getting eight hours of sleep. Her body had resisted getting out of bed despite being the one who insisted Lexa make this trip as scheduled instead of waiting until after the announcement. She yawns several times in her saddle, trusting Lexa to catch her if she slips. She sleeps hard in her bedroll next to Lexa that night, knowing that the next day is just as grim in terms of wakeup times.

Abby went ahead of them a few days ago, satisfied with the terms of the merger and wanting to get back to her patients. She's waiting for them when they arrive, even though it's quite late and they've been riding by moonlight for at least an hour. "Come on," she says, seeing that they don't want to waste any time. 

They go directly to the diagnostic wing. Lexa gives Clarke her sword and shoulder guard to hold on to before she gets changed. 

"I'll be right here," says Clarke, clutching both items with nervous hands. She watches in muted anxiety as Abby guides Lexa into the changing room connected to the scanner. She wants to join her mother, observe the results come in. But she wants to give Lexa her privacy more.

It doesn't take long, about ten minutes, though the whole time Clarke fidgets and threads her fingers through the folds of Lexa's drape. 

Lexa comes back first, still adjusting her shirt and her hair. Clarke has, rather cheekily, put the shoulder guard on herself, and she models it for Lexa with an unrepentant full-circle turn. 

"It suits you," Lexa says, not at all the grumpy pout Clarke was expecting. She unbuckles it with a huff, which she realizes was Lexa's intent all along if her amusement is any indication. She doesn't let Lexa take it, instead settling it on her shoulder, pulling the straps around her chest, and buckling it with perhaps more force than is strictly necessary. 

Abby joins them while Clarke is still figuring out how Lexa's sword attaches to her belt. She's grinning, brushing Lexa's waist and purposely making a hash of it when Abby clears her throat. Lexa takes over, holding on to the sword while Clarke's hand comes to rest at the small of Lexa's back. 

"Clear," Abby says. 

Clarke breaks into a smile, turning and hugging her tight, nose buried in the crook of her neck. 

"Come back in six months," Abby says, her smile a match to her daughter's.

In their quarters in the Ark, Clarke holds Lexa as closely as she can without stifling her. They won't be getting much sleep since the plan is to set out before dawn yet again, but she can't bring herself to close her eyes just yet. After a month in Polis, she still drinks in the simple pleasure of feeling Lexa's body pressed against hers, the occasional tickle of her hair, the little shifts she makes as she settles down. She can't stop stroking Lexa's stomach, feeling the strength underneath her hand, the pattern of her breathing.

"Clarke, you must sleep," Lexa says.

"You sleep. I'll be fine," Clarke says, though she stops her stroking. 

Lexa pushes her until she consents to roll onto her side and let Lexa spoon her loosely. Lexa isn't much given to spooning since Clarke has a tendency to trap her arm and sleep on it, but tonight she must sense that Clarke needs it. Lexa pulls her hair aside to place a few small kisses on the nape of her neck. "We are both fine. Sleep," she says. 

In the morning, it takes fifteen minutes to properly work the sensation back into Lexa's arm but she doesn't complain. She just wiggles her fingers experimentally to see if the tingling has truly stopped while wearing the face she uses when she's being weirdly interested in her own pain sensations. Clarke takes her hand and presses a kiss to the palm, then another to Lexa's lips. "Let's go home," she says.

*

The formal announcement of the merger of Skaikru into Trikru goes off with nary a hitch. What comes after the announcement is a different story. Of course they have to have a huge feast, so on top of the paperwork there’s the logistics of what is essentially now a national celebration, and it’s kept Lexa busy for days. Clarke helps where she can, but mostly she just takes care of the little things so Lexa doesn’t have to bother. 

“We used to have this holiday on the Ark,” Clarke says the night before the feast, lying in bed with her head resting on Lexa’s chest, listening to her heart beat. She traces the scar on Lexa’s belly, almost faded into nothing now. “It was called Unity Day. It celebrated how the founding nations of the Ark came together in order to survive. They weren’t separate nations anymore. They couldn’t be. They were just Arkers.”

Lexa strokes her hair. Her voice is sleepy. “Now we are all Grounders.”

“Now you’re my heda,” Clarke says, which earns her a half-assed poke. Lexa is as much heda to the Sky People as Clarke is in charge in Polis, which is not at all. They’ve formally erased most distinctions between the two groups, but the soon-to-be-former-Sky People are still mostly self-governed. In peacetime Nova and Camp Jaha are controlled by their own council, though that council now has a provisional seat for a native Tree person until such time as the majority of the Sky population has spent more time on Earth than in space. In wartime or emergencies, Lexa is the unquestioned commander of all. The Sky People have all the rights of any Tree person, and the Tree People now have access to the Sky’s vast reserves of food, as well as an exchange program to share technology. Unofficially they’ve been using their technology to Trikru benefit for years through medicines and manufacturing, but now they’ll show their new fellow citizens how it all works and start bringing it to Polis in more than just piecemeal exchanges. 

“When will you return to Nova?” Lexa asks, but without any of the anxiety of separation. It’s just the current arrangement of their lives; Clarke must be in Nova for part of every month, at least for the immediate future. She still has classes to teach, and an advisory role with the council. She has her friends, her family. But these days she also trusts that her people can survive without her. She made so many hard, terrible decisions for them so that they could have—this. Peace. A new start. So there wouldn’t have to be any more terrible decisions, weighing lives against lives. They don’t have to do that anymore. Maybe it’s absurd that it’s taken her so long to accept it even with an extensive peacetime behind her, but she is who she is.

“I’ll go back with the delegation, day after the feast,” Clarke mutters. She’s sleepy too, lulled by the steady rhythm under her ear. Her body snuggles closer to Lexa, who is clad in a thin tank top and shorts. They’ve eschewed blankets to cope with the warm summer night and the sheets are linen now, the furs packed away until it turns cold again. Linen, woven on looms in Polis from flax grown on Nova farms. One people. 

“I will miss you,” Lexa says. It’s not the sentiment that clutches at Clarke’s heart, but the ease with which Lexa admits it. 

“I’ll miss you too.” She drops a dozy half-kiss onto Lexa’s bare sternum. Silence envelops them. Clarke falls asleep, content that Lexa will still be holding her in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and said so many kind things about this story. This was originally going to be much shorter, with a much sadder ending, but as it turns out all I want is for Clarke and Lexa to be happy.


End file.
